#panic attack in fiction
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heretherebedork · 5 months ago
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Everything I want. Next week! And you can just see the understanding dawning in Sea's eyes even before everything happens and the way Neil is struggling so much his trauma and grief and I cannot wait to be a mess next Monday.
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getsteddiewithit · 11 months ago
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steve uses the non-verbal safeword.
CW: slight NSFW, panic/anxiety attack, harmful stims (scratching self)
“tap three times on me if you ever can’t speak and wanna stop, okay?”
yes, steve had remembered those words. all throughout the times they had sex, he remembered those words. but it didn’t make them any less scary.
the thought of ever needing to stop in the middle of a scene made his palms sweat. of course he and eddie trusted each other; knew that if the other was in trouble and needed to stop, they’d completely understand. no judging whatsoever.
but still… absolutely needing to stop and move on made him so anxious. deep down he didn’t want to be a disappointment. he didn’t want eddie upset.
“baby, what’s your color?” eddie murmured to him, rubbing his shoulders and slowing his rhythm. steve did not reply, shakily breathing into the pillow and tearing up.
“steve, color?” he asked, louder, and more firm. yet he could not bring himself to talk. his mind went to the other times in previous relationships, where he felt like this exactly, and they didn’t even think to check in. and he couldn’t bring himself to stop them.
he could feel eddie shift, basically ready to pull out, before he asked again, “steven.”
oh. his full name. eddie only used it when he was deadly serious. this seemed to snap him out of his haze, and he shakily reached behind him and found somewhere on his body to tap.
one. two. three soft and hesitant taps, just like eddie told him to do months ago.
“red,” eddie mumbled to himself, worried, and pulling out immediately. he flipped steve over, pulling him close and cupping his tear-stained cheeks.
“what’s wrong? what can i do?” he asked softly, searching his eyes.
“i- i don’t know,” he choked out, a heavy sob leaving his lips before gulping down air he felt like was leaving his body too fast.
“that’s okay, just breathe. breathe, steve, okay? c’mere,” he pulled him into his lap, his head in his neck as he continued to cry. eddie ran his fingers through his hair, and steve clutched onto him tight.
“deep and slow breaths,” he told him, and steve was doing the opposite. breathing way too fast and inhaling far too much, to the point his chest and stomach hurt and he began to feel dizzy.
“steven, listen to me,” there it was again, the full name, which brought him somewhat back to his senses, “deep, slow breaths. do it with me.”
and he tried. he breathed with eddie, taking in some air and blowing it out too fast before inhaling sharply again; coughing and sobbing.
“there, that’s it. it’s okay baby, just try again.”
steve only wanted to cry more. of course eddie was congratulating him even after he didn’t even do it.
“again,” he told him, beginning to inhale slowly, holding it, and exhaling slowly. steve followed, better this time, but still failing.
“i- i can’t,” he choked out.
“yes you can, do it with me,” he said, inhaling and exhaling again. steve followed, his hand going to his forearm, clawing to try and ground himself more.
“no,” eddie caught his arm, pulling it away and bringing it up to his chest, “do you remember what your therapist said?”
“he said,” he paused, his breath catching in his throat as he cried, “to find a different way to ground myself.”
“correct. now, just feel my heart. i’m right here, steve. i’m not leaving. try and match your heartbeat to mine,”
steve kept his hand flat against eddie’s chest, then did the same for himself. he could feel how fast his heart was going versus eddie’s, and it made him uncomfortable.
the other rubbed his back, and kept one hand running through his hair, breathing slow and deep and watched as steve tried to do the same.
“good job,” he praised, kissing his cheek. the pair’s breathing pattern was now the same, and steve was no longer crying. steve nodded as thanks, crawling off eddie’s lap and under the blankets, curling up. eddie stood to put his underwear and sweats back on, only to sit back down on the bed and run his fingers through steve’s hair again.
“do you want to talk about it?”
steve sighed shakily and shrugged, wiping his red cheeks.
“just started thinking,” he mumbled.
“about?”
“things in previous relationships. and then i started feeling like i was crawling in my own skin, and i started to panic,”
“what about your previous relationships?” he questioned, only curiously, with no mean intent.
steve let out a quick exhale before sitting up, “how i could never really say no, i guess? i know it doesn’t matter now. i trust you. and i started feeling overwhelmed in the first place, so i started thinking about the safe word, and how you told me to say ‘red’ or tap you three times. but it just made me anxious. i knew i needed to stop but i didn’t want to upset you in the process,”
“you could never upset me over something like that, steve, okay? that’s the point of the taps and the system we have. you know your limits, and in case they’re ever pushed, you do or say so. i’m so proud of you for using it,”
eddie pulled steve in for a hug, rubbing his back softly. steve’s heart kind of broke. here he was, in his boyfriend’s arms starting to cry again because he said he was proud of him. proud of him for something as simple as saying no, and stop. something he never thought he could do; something he was taught was wrong, and his boyfriend was praising him for it.
“i’m proud of you,” he repeated, to which steve only cried harder, nodding in his shoulder as thanks and sniffling.
he pulled back, laying down and wiping his face again.
“i’m gonna go bring you some water and some easy food to eat, okay? just stay there,” he smiled, getting up and heading to the kitchen.
steve smiled softly, getting comfortable under the warm blankets and inhaling the familiar scent of gain and eddie’s cheap cologne.
and he thanked the universe for a boyfriend that was actually a decent human being.
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ldysmfrst · 4 months ago
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Welcome to Incomplete's Master List! The Taglist is OPEN for this story.
This is an OT8 x Plus Sized/Chubby Reader story. The story will have Mature Scenes. The chapters with these adult themes will have (M) in the chapter name, so please 18+ readers only. Within the chapters, at the start and end of the Mature scene will be the following banner, if you want to skip them.
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The world-famous K-pop group Ateez earned its way to Fame. Once they found each other, they became bonded soulmates. They figured everything was complete with the 8 of them, and they could share their passion for music with the world. What happens when a new pull comes during their Towards The Light World Tour? Does 8 really make 1?
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Chapter 1 - A Pull to Where?
Seonghwa feels like something has been missing for a while. Y/n feels like she is leaving something behind.
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Chapter 2 - A Soulmate in Los Angeles
Revelations within Ateez bring them together for the hunt to find their missing soulmate. Meanwhile, Y/n struggles with thinking she has gone into the land of Delulu.
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Chapter 3 - Something is Wrong...
Ateez finally finds y/n, but it isn't the happy-go-lucky meet-cute anyone was expecting.
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Chapter 4 - 8 Makes 1 Team, But 9 Makes...
Y/n dark past is revealed. It's time for all of Ateez to get on board and show y/n what it means to them, or step off and leave her alone.
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As a paid member of my Patreon, you can read extra spicy smutty scenes and additional content and have early release benefits for each chapter!
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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Reader Asks
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Additional Content
Patreon Writing Style Poll Results
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bunny-lovers · 2 months ago
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If you have anxiety or panic attacks, your f/o will absolutely learn how to best comfort you.
Whether that means holding you close, verbally assuring you that everything is okay, or just giving you some time and space alone, your f/o loves you and will do whatever you need them to to help you feel better.
proship/comship/neutral DNI
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thefawnfallacy · 8 months ago
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You don’t have to like sebaciel or the many undertones it presents in the series but it’s actually getting to the point where insistent ignorance of the sexual nature Ciel is presented in can be dangerous. Fiction does not exist on a 1:1 scale with reality but just using this fictitious scenario of Ciel being sexualised (by Yana herself) while having a panic/asthma attack and it being called “not actually sexual” or sebaciel fans being called “delusional” when pointing out the erotic nature of, not just this, but the many instances in which the viewer is meant to see Ciel in a sensual manner, is concerning.
You should be able to identify a sexual situation, even if it’s a situation in which the things happening are not inherently sexual. One of the main components of grooming is that is does not start out sexual, there’s a buildup to that in which the groundwork has already been laid. I’ll say it again, you should be able to identify when something sexual is happening without it being inherently sexual.
Yes, Ciel is repeatedly sexualised canonically, it is not being used to mock shippers, he simply exists in a very erotic manner in many situations using a variety of different ways to depict it, most commonly being flower language. No, you are not “morally correct” for not enjoying it, you just find it uncomfortable or triggering and that’s fine. Yes, you should be able to see that he’s being sexualised because he’s fake and if you cannot see it then there’s a chance of not being able to see this in real life, whether it be a friend, a child in your care, or even yourself.
Not being able to identify the sexual nature a character can be presented in is not a good thing. It doesn’t mean you “aren’t a porn addict”, it doesn’t mean you “aren’t a bad person” and it certainly doesn’t mean you are “not a pedophile, like those shippers are”. It means you cannot spot the difference between a bad fake relationship and a bad real relationship.
Stop giving a damn about fictional characters and start giving a damn about yourself.
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childrenofcain-if · 2 months ago
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Thinking about how when MC tells C that they have beautiful eyes they feel that they are shoved underwater, everything fading away and those are the only words they can hear and how D and MC are literally underwater when D is totally struck by MC's beauty, made aware of their presence and how their existence makes D feel that the world is less boring. About how for C being underwater is a disarming force but for D it is awareness, realisation. Can't get these two scenes out of my head.
aj, you cooked an entire meal here and i approve 😋
C is so emotionally stunted because of their past that they have a hard time processing what exactly they’re feeling towards the MC and attribute everything into a neat little category of ‘competitiveness with bouts of hate’. for now, they’d rather believe that they utterly resent MC’s presence than entertain the possibility that it might be a softer emotion—a rose flower that they’ve mistaken for solely its thorns.
D, on the other hand, is well-aware of the emotions and are just cocky enough to think that it won’t progress past a simple physical attraction. they can be way more self-destructive than C, because at least the latter would slow down and begrudgingly accept it at some point with a little prodding from the MC. D will just spiral and run like they always have when things get serious.
i’ll try not to make it overly angsty but the ride ahead is about to be super bumpy with a lot of wrong turns 😞
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jedoggo · 3 months ago
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I just read experiment 21 a couple of days ago. I am going to go bawl my eye sockets out in a corner brb 💗💗
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Original meme btw
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shiorimakibawrites · 11 months ago
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Image Credits: kissthemgoodbye.net / Greta Punch (Unsplash) / Stephanie Harvey (Unsplash)
A Tale of Two Men (Part 1 of Cozy Corners)
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6,595 Summary: One week after you open your cafe, you meet two handsome men - defense attorney Matt Murdock and the vigilante Daredevil. Warning(s): Canon-typical violence, description of anxiety and panic attacks, referenced oral sex (f receiving), referenced p in v sex, referenced masturbation, dirty thoughts, female gaze Cozy Corners Masterlist Shiori's Masterlist A03 link Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @danzer8705 Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. Divider Credit: @firefly-graphics
A Tale of Two Men
You couldn’t stop smiling. Owning your own cafe had been the dream of you and your best friend Dora Morales since high school. And now, after years of hard work, it had finally happened. One week ago, you had opened your doors for the first time. You looked around. You and Dora had done everything you could, within the limitations of your lease and budget, to make Cozy Corners to live up to its name. Warm, comfortable, and inviting.
You were especially pleased with the little nook, tucked away from the main bustle of the cafe where people could read and study in relative quiet. You had found some nice chairs in a secondhand store, their brown leather the color of chocolate and butter soft. The little library of reference books and fiction was small but you hoped that over time it would grow. Yes, people were more likely to use the internet to look things up these days but you liked having analog back-ups. Just in case something got broken. Or the city was invaded by aliens. Again.
You found having back-up plans helped calm your nerves, made the anxiety gremlin in your head less loud. You were a big fan of keeping that gremlin quiet. You didn’t like it when the gremlin got loud. It was mean.
Hearing the bell on the front door chime, you looked up to greet your new customer. And immediately felt your stomach fill with butterflies. Because one of the most beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on had just walked into your cafe. Dark brown – no, dark auburn, you could see the glint of red in the sunlight – hair that looked like it would be very enjoyable to run your fingers through, excellent bone structure, and a mouth practically begging to be kissed. Round sunglasses with dark red lenses hide his eyes from view. Which was unfortunate. Especially if they were just as pretty as the rest of him.
The brown suit he worn, by contrast, did very little to disguise how well-built he was. Which was very, if the strain on buttons of his dress shirt was any indication. He moved an enviable grace as he walked toward the counter, his long white cane sweeping in front of him.
“Good morning, sir,” you said. “What can I do for you?”
“Good morning,” he replied. His voice was pretty too, nice and deep. The kind you could easily imagine whispering everything from sweet nothings to dirty promises in your ear. The thought made your cheeks warm and your heart beat at little faster.
His lips twitched into something like a smirk before he asked, “Do you have a menu in braille?”
You sighed, then said, “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side.
“I have something in braille. The printing service claims that it’s my menu.”
“I take it that you disagree?”
“I don’t sell a cinematic rainbow muffler.”
“What?”
The sheer disbelief and confusion put into that single ‘what’ had you biting your lip to not laugh. You didn’t want him to think you were joking or making fun of him.
“Cinematic rainbow muffler,” you repeated. “Not something we sell here at Cozy Corners.”
His lips twitched. “I don’t think anyone does. What was it supposed to be?”
“Cinnamon raisin muffin.”
His brow furrowed. “That . . . doesn’t even have the same amount of letters. How did they manage get that?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” you said, shaking your head. “The whole thing is like that.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” you said, pulling out the copy you had left under the counter in case you needed a laugh. Which was about the only thing it was good for. You sat it down in front of him. “It’s at your twelve o’clock if you want to see for yourself.”
Mr. Handsome took you up on that offer. While he read – or rather attempted to read since you knew sections were completely unintelligible – you idly wondered if the dark facial hair dusting his face was the start of a beard or if he just didn’t feel like shaving this morning . . . you had the feeling he would look good either way . . .
Case in point, all that look of utter befuddlement like he didn’t whether to laugh or to be irritated by what he was reading did was make him look adorable. You needed to be careful. This guy was dangerously pretty.
“What is 78554.051?” He asked, looking like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“What?”
“It’s listed as one of the drinks. I think. I assume you don’t serve dribbles.”
“No, sir,” you said, thinking. “My best guess is that someone put the number sign where it didn’t belong.”
Mr. Handsome hummed thoughtfully, re-running his fingers over one section of the menu of nonsense. “Green tea.”
“Now that I do have,” you said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order a drink?”
“I don’t know . . . ,” he said with a teasing grin. “Drinking a coffin sounds dangerous.”
“It does,” you agreed, ignoring the continued presence of the butterflies to go along with the banter. “Does coffee sound better?”
“Infinitely.”
You gave him a quick rundown of the coffee options. He ordered a red eye for himself, which always sounded like a lot of caffeine to you but you didn’t know this man’s life. While he didn’t look tired, maybe he had been working a lot of hours lately and needed the extra oomph. Apparently he didn’t think his coworkers needed extra caffeine as they got a cappuccino and a dirty chai.
“What’s the name?” you asked. Mr. Handsome might be the only customer right now but that could change any minute. It was only a little after nine. Plenty of people might still be heading toward school or work, people who might decide to grab a coffee (and maybe some food) on their way.
“Matt.”
“Matt,” you repeated, both to make sure that you had heard him correctly and because you wanted to say it. If for no other reason so you wouldn’t accidentally call him Mr. Handsome outloud. He nodded in confirmation. “Just coffee this morning?”
He made another thoughtful hum. “I probably shouldn’t have just coffee for breakfast. What’s on offer?”
“We have bagels, muffins, croissants, turnovers, doughnuts, frittatas, and breakfast sandwiches.”
“Hmmm, those all sound great,” he said.
“Take your time,” you said, “Think about it while I make your drinks?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
You turned to start making the coffee. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flinch a little when the machine started grinding the beans. Which you couldn’t really blame him for. It wasn’t a nice sound. Easily one of your least favorite. But Dora, who was a coffee aficionado, might actually kill you if you even thought about using anything other than freshly ground coffee for espresso.
She had explained why it mattered. And demonstrated how changing how fine the grind was effected the drink. But that didn’t make the noise any less unpleasant. Which was probably why she hadn’t been able to talk you into freshly grinding your coffee at home. Not yet anyway. You were getting worn down on the issue. Agreeing would at least mean she would stop giving you that look of actual pain everytime she saw your can of already-ground coffee.
Pulling the shot part of the espresso was a lot more pleasant on the ears. With the added bonus of putting out that nice fresh coffee smell. You poured the shot into the waiting to-go cup of the house brew. You knew some places poured the hot coffee into the espresso but Dora thought that method disturbed the crèma too much.
You were pouring in the frothed milk with the chai concentrate into the double-shot of espresso for his coworkers’ dirty chai when Matt spoke again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did but you can ask another one,” you said, feeling a little bold from his earlier friendliness, as you put the finished drink into the carrier alongside it’s companions.
He chuckled. “Left myself wide open for that one . . . Are you the owner?”
“Co-owner with my best friend, Dora,” you answered, tapping the used grounds into the knock box.
“Dora and who?” Matt asked with a charming smile. You felt your heart sped up. Something about smiling transformed his already handsome face into something breathtakingly beautiful. You had no resistant to something like that. You told him your name.
“That’s a pretty name.”
“And that was a line,” you said. One that you had heard numerous times. Through never from someone this good looking.
“It can be,” he acknowledged before subtly shifting his posture. He hadn’t been slouching before but there had been a relaxed air to the way he carried himself. Now he was standing there, straight-backed and shoulders square, his hands resting on the white cane held upright between his feet like it was some medieval courtiers’ staff of office. He had a presence. One that you suddenly realized had been there all along. It was just front and center now.
When he spoke again, there had also been a subtle shift to his voice. Easy self-assurance had been replaced with rock-solid confidence and conviction. Not thundering like an angry priest, just the calm, even voice of someone who knows they are correct, that the facts were on their side.
“Does that phrase being used as a pick-up line mean that a name cannot be pretty?”
“No,” you said. “A name can still be pretty.”
“Generally speaking, is your name one of the pretty ones?”
“Yes?” you said slowly. Why did you feel like you had just walked into a trap? Maybe it was that little edge of sharpness to his smile? . . . .
“Well, if names can be pretty and your name is one of those pretty names, then you have a pretty name.”
“I suppose,” you conceded. It was hard to argue with that logic. Especially when you didn’t actually want to argue that your name was ugly. You liked your name. And it was nice to hear something about you called pretty. Even if it was just your name.
“A pretty name for a beautiful girl.”
Warmth spread across your cheeks. That smile should be illegal. As for the words . . . he probably didn’t mean them. He was obviously something of a flirt. Regardless . . . it was still nice to hear. Still made your heart flutter.
“And that was absolutely a line,” you said, fidgeting with the ties on your apron. “Flattery is not going get you a free muffin.”
“It’s not flattery if it is true,” he said. Which did nothing to lessen the warmth in your face. “And since muffins are off the table, what about the doughnuts? Or the turnovers?”
You laughed. “Sorry. As much as I would like to give out free coffee and food, unfortunately there are all these places that expect me to pay them with money.”
“Instead of an excellent pie, like a sensible person?”
“Exactly,” you said, once again finding yourself drawn into the banter in spite of your nerves. You knew one thing for certain about Matt – he was definitely charming.
He nodded solemnly, like this was a serious conversation. “I’ve encountered the same problem with my small business.”
“You did?” you said. Then, feeling genuinely curious, you asked him, “What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer who wants to get paid in pie?” you said, feeling a little skeptical. Didn’t lawyers usually work in big offices that paid them big money? Granted your experience with lawyers was largely limited to baby-faced ones who were grabbing coffee for the office or law students who looked like they had forgotten what sleep was . . .
“I like pie,” he said mildly. “But, as you said, since so many people want money instead of pie, my partner insists that’s what we charge for our services.”
“That’s a shame,” you said.
“It is,” Matt agreed solemnly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “What to know a secret? If you ever need to bribe Foggy, try bagels. He can resist pie but never a good bagel.”
“Duly noted,” you said. “I assume Foggy is your partner?”
“Yep,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.”
“Nelson?” you repeated. “Any relation to Nelson’s Meats?”
You expected the answer to be no. This was New York City, after all, not a small town. But, to your surprise, Matt nodded and said, “Yes, it’s his family’s butcher shop. How do you know Nelson’s?”
“We buy the meat for the cafe from them,” you explained as you placed the to-go carrier by the cash register. “Did you ever reach a verdict on breakfast?”
He chuckled. “Jury is still out, I’m afraid. It all smells so good. Can you give me a recommendation?”
Your heart gave another excited flutter at the compliment as you thought about it. Then, with a little hesitation, said, “Maybe bagels? That way, if I need to bribe your partner, he knows what he’s getting out of the deal?”
“Good idea,” Matt said with a smile. “What favors do you have?”
After being given his options, he opted for a plain for himself and an everything for Foggy. After some further consideration an apple turnover for Karen, the third person at his office. He thought the sweetness of the turnover would compliment the spices of her dirty chai better than a bagel.
Soon the rest of his order was bagged up and paid for. Before he left, he tapped the menu of nonsense with his finger. “Can I have a copy of this? Otherwise I’m pretty sure Foggy will think I’m making it up.”
“Go ahead,” you said. “I’ve got other copies.”
He smiled, then tucked the menu into the bag with the food. He feed his arm through the handles of the bag, then picked up the drinks carrier. Considering his left hand was occupied with his cane . . .
“Would you like me to open the door for you?”
“Please.”
On the downside, Cozy Corners wasn’t very big so that particular journey didn’t take very long. But on the upside, you got to watch him walk down the street, discovering that he had a perfect ass. Because of course he did. You sighed. Why was everything about this man so attractive . . .
“I saw that.”
You jumped with a small shriek and whirled around. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was Dora. How long had she been standing there?
“Saw what?” you demanded, walking back over to the counter.
“So many things,” she said with a knowing grin. “You flirting with Mr. Matthew Murdock, Esquire? Undressing him with your eyes? Checking out his ass? I saw it all.”
Warmth flooded your face. “I wasn’t undressing him with my eyes!”
“Yes, you were,” Dora said with the utter confidence of someone who had known you since you were ten and therefore knew all of your tells.
“Maybe I was,” you muttered as you tidied up the work station. It needed to be done but also gave you an excuse not to see that knowing grin. Which you knew, without even looking, had just gotten bigger.
“And now you are thinking about how loudly he could make you scream.”
“Dora!” You exclaimed, your head whipping around to make sure the cafe was still as empty as it was the last time you looked. It was. “Is this really the time for that? We’re at work!”
“That wasn’t a denial,” she pointed out in a sing-song voice. “I’m betting on very loud.”
“What makes you say that?” you asked, suspicion in your voice. “Did you sleep with him?”
The very thought sparked a little flame of jealousy inside you. Which you hated. You didn’t want feel jealous of your best friend . . .
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know someone who did. She said Murdock loves eating pussy. That he fucked her better with his tongue than any man ever had with their dick.”
“Dora!” You whined. Because now you were thinking about it. Now you were trying to imagine that handsome face buried between your thighs. It was an appealing image. Very appealing. But one you would rather not have when you could do nothing to quench the heat growing between your legs. “Why are you telling me this?!”
“You’ve been under way too much stress lately. Orgasms are wonderful stress relief.”
“Matt Murdock isn’t a requirement for me to have an orgasm,” you said mulishly. You had hands. And a vibrator. Both had served you well in that department. Often better than men had.
“Perhaps not,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before flashing you a wicked smile. “But that’s who you are going to imagine fucking you senseless while you flick the bean, isn’t it?”
You were spared from having to answer that question by the arrival of new customers.
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You managed to avoid any further conversation about Matt Murdock and what he could do with his tongue. Or other body parts. You put that down to two things. First, there had been a steady stream of customers to keep you both busy. Most had been simply curious about the new business in the neighborhood or tourists needing a quick break. The latter made you a little nostalgic, remembering your first days in the city and how overwhelmed you had felt. But some of the customers were repeats from earlier visits. Something that you hoped would continue.
Second, while you were still working on hiring, you did have some staff. Staff that had come in around lunch time and were there until final clean-up. It was one thing for Dora to speak so frankly about your sex life (or the lack thereof) when it was just the two of you but in front of others? Others who were your employees? Who likely would be very uncomfortable with that conversation? That was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not one that Dora or you had any desire to partake in.
By the time you were locking up the cafe and setting the alarm, Dora had seemingly forgotten all about Matt Murdock and how you had – allegedly – been undressing him with your eyes. It might only be temporary reprieve. Assuming he didn’t hate the coffee and food, Matt would be back. Despite the certainty of teasing from your best friend, you hoped that he came back.
Not because you thought had any chance with him. You weren’t delusional. Men that good-looking didn’t go for people like you . . . but if he was a regular, you could at least look at him. You’d get to talk to him. Though seeing him with girlfriends was going to suck . . .
“Are you sure that you don’t want me and Steve to walk you home?” Dora asked, looking worried.
“Yes,” you said, looking over at your best friend and her steady boyfriend. He had come to pick her up as usual. “I’m in the opposite direction of you guys.”
“I don’t mind,” Steve said. You knew that he didn’t. He made similar offers since he and Dora had started dating. And never complained or acted annoyed when you accepted the offer. But your apartment was much closer to Cozy Corners than their place, which weren’t even in the Kitchen. The only time you had accepted the offer since the cafe opened was the day before and only because you were dropping off the deposit at the bank. Then, carrying your opening week’s worth of cash, you felt like you had needed some extra security. Steve was a very sweet guy but he was also a tall man with large muscles. Not exactly the easy target that most criminals are looking for.
“I’ll be fine,” you said. “It’s not that late and my place isn’t far.”
“Okay,” Dora said. “If you are sure?”
“I am.”
Mollified by your conviction, Steve and Dora left. You watched them go around the corner before heading off yourself. You walked swiftly. Because rain had been predicted tonight and it was starting to get chilly at night. It wasn’t quite cold yet but brisk enough that you needed a jacket and didn’t fancy getting soaked. You couldn’t afford to get sick right now. Your business was too new . . . and Lady Who Sneezes A Lot wasn’t exactly the second impression you wanted to give Matt.
You might have very few hopes of attracting his interest but that didn’t mean you wanted to completely tank what little chance you had . . . You shook your head. You needed to stop the daydreaming. This wasn’t the time for it. Daredevil was back from wherever he had disappeared to but the vigilante only made things safer, not safe . . .
There was no warning. You were walking, almost home. Then you were grabbed from behind. You screamed as you were dragged toward the gap between two buildings. You dropped the sack holding your dinner and tried to struggle, to resist, but your attacker was too strong for you. You were pulled into the shadows and slammed into the side of a building. It knocked the wind of you.
Heart pounding, you desperately tried to suck in air. To get your breath back. You needed to scream again. Scream in the Kitchen and the Devil came. That was the story. That was the hope. But was one scream enough? You didn’t know. So you had to scream. Scream and pray all those stories were true . . .
You started to scream . . . then agony exploded on the left side of your face, transforming that scream into a cry of pain. Everything from your cheek down to your jaw immediately began to throb. It hurt. Worse than the time your sister Alex had accidentally given you a black eye with a softball. The bruising grip on your shoulder that kept you pinned against the wall barely even registered.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man ordered in a low hiss. “Make another sound and I’ll slit your throat.”
Tears were blurring your vision but you could see the knife he was brandishing. It wasn’t a small pocket knife. It was a chef’s knife. Like the one you had at home and at the cafe. And it was stained with something. You bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop a terrified whimper. It was too dark for you to tell with what but you feared that it was blood.
Apparently satisfied that you were too frightened to be anything but compliant, the man released your shoulder.
“Purse,” the man demanded. “Watch. Jewelry.”
Trembling, you removed your crossbody bag and held it out. It was taken and slung onto his shoulder. You ignore the watch directive since you weren’t wearing one. It was when you tried to remove your jewelry that things went wrong. The only piece of jewelry that you were wearing, a necklace, had a very delicate chain with a tiny clasp. Your hands were shaking too much for you to get a good grip on the lobster clasp, let alone open it and slip out the ring. The chain wasn’t big enough to pull the whole necklace over your head. Every time, the clasp slipped out of your fingers, your panic grew. Which only made the trembling worse.
It didn’t take long for the mugger to lose patience. His hand darted out and grabbed the necklace. He yanked hard, snapping the chain. More tears filled your eyes. It was bad enough that he was stealing your favorite necklace. Did he have to break it too? Then, to your horror, he raised the knife. You screamed, instinctively throwing up your arms to try to protect yourself. Your eyes squeezed shut, bracing yourself for the pain that you knew was coming.
Except it never came.
What came was a growl, low and furious. It was accompanied by the sound of something flying through the air. You heard a pained yelp and something metal clattering to the ground. You cautiously opened your eyes just in time to see someone put himself between you and the mugger.
Someone dressed entirely in black, save for the thick white ropes tied around his forearms and hands. Someone wearing a mask. Daredevil, you realized with a dizzying sense of relief. It might not be the more distinctive red outfit and its horned helmet but you were sure it was him . . . the stories were true. Scream in Hell’s Kitchen and the Devil will come to save you.
“You made a big mistake,” Daredevil snarled at the mugger, each word dripping with fury and utter contempt. “By not fleeing when you had the chance.”
Then he threw himself at the man.
Your legs turned to liquid. You fell back against the wall and slide down. You didn’t care the street was getting your pants dirty. You had to sit. While your legs were uninterested in supporting your weight, you could pull them up and wrap your arms around them. So you did. It was almost like a hug and you could use one right now.
You couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of breaking bones, meaty thwacks, and a man’s screams were oddly distant. Like you were listening to something through a well instead something happening just a few feet away. Scent, however, was viscerally and intensely present. Acrid car exhaust, rotting garbage, coopery blood, sweet peaches, and sour sweat filled your nose. You gagged, then tried to breathe through your mouth to lessen the nauseating combination. But you couldn’t get your throat to work . . . you couldn’t get enough air . . . your vision darkened . . . . you couldn’t breathe . . .
You weren’t sure which penetrated past the panic first – the hands massaging your shoulders or the deep voice speaking. But once it did, you were suddenly aware of both. You almost couldn’t believe your own eyes and ears. Was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really kneeling in front of your huddled body? Were those gloved hands gently gripped your shoulders, really the same ones that had just literally beaten a man bloody?
“You’re safe, it’s okay . . .”
The soft, quiet voice was completely at odds with his grim reputation. It also sounded a little familiar but you were too exhausted to try remembering where you had heard it. It had been a long day and panic attacks always took a lot out of you.
You weren’t so tired that you missed that the Devil was a good-looking man. And not just in the face. Those grainy surveillance photos in the newspaper hadn’t conveyed just how tight his clothing was. Which was very tight. His shirt, for example, was practically painted on. You could see his muscles. His many, many muscles. He had clearly hit the muscle store during a clearance sale . . .
The thought made you giggle. It sounded more like a wheeze and more than a little hysterical but still a giggle. But you needed a laugh. You were alive. You had been sure that you were about to die. That you were going to be stabbed to death in a robbery gone bad . . . you started to tremble again, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather . . . you could have died . . . your bottom lip quivered . . .
Hands squeezed your shoulders, “Hey, hey, look at me.”
That didn’t sound too hard. Only half of his face was visible but what you could see was mighty fine.
A deep chuckle. “Thanks for the compliment.”
‘Note to self – abject terror followed by panic attack completely dissolves your brain-to-mouth filter. Shut up before you ask if it is actually possible to bounce a quarter off of his abs.’
Another deep chuckle alerted you that you might have also said that outloud. A theory confirmed by his statement, “I’ve never tried. Can you do something for me?”
Warmth filled your cheeks as you nodded. He smiled at you. It was a nice smile. “Follow my lead? Deep breathe in . . .”
You mimicked the inhale, the short hold, then slow release out.
“Good! Now again . . .”
It seemed like forever but eventually you felt calm. Or at least not like you were about to have another panic attack. That was good. Panicking was exhausting. Daredevil seemed to agree with your self-assessment as he had stopped instructing you to take deep breathes. After one more reassuring squeeze, his hands slid off of your shoulders. He sat back on his heels.
“Feeling better now?” he asked, his voice returning to what you assumed was his Daredevil speaking voice – low, deep, with a growling rasp. It was possible he sounded like this all the time. It wasn’t like you had ever meet him outside the mask. Well, as far you knew. You supposed that you could have but how would you know . . .
“Yes,” you said, when you remembered that you had been asked a question. “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not from a certain point of view. You were feeling better now that you were no longer teetering on the edge of a second panic attack in a short space of time. You knew this calm, almost numb, feeling was fragile. It would shatter instantly if pressed too hard. But that was the best you could hope for right now. Feeling any better than this would require things that weren’t here – like your most comfortable clothes and your pets – along with time.
Daredevil frowned, tilting his head slightly to one side. It was hard to interpret the expression on his face since you couldn’t see most of it. But it seemed like he was staring at you (through how he saw anything through that mask was a mystery) as if you were a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Or maybe he was simply skeptical. That was possible. You had seen how you looked after panic attacks. In his shoes, you wouldn’t believe you about being fine either.
“I’m as fine as I’m going to get tonight,” you amended.
That answer, at least, was deemed plausible to him. He nodded, then pulled something about the little pouch attached to his belt. A cellphone. Who was he calling? Since you had no energy for guessing games, you simply asked.
“The police,” he said.
Well that was your cue to get out of here. You couldn’t think of something you would rather deal with less right now. Your usual post-panic attack headache was already growing – no need to kick it into migraine territory with sirens and flashing lights. You shifted onto your knees so you could get to your feet.
“What are you doing?” Daredevil asked.
“Going home.”
“Home? Shouldn’t you be going to the hospital?”
Amazing, he had found something worse than the police. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” you said. “I don’t wanna.”
His lips twitched. “You don’t wanna?”
“What are you, a parrot?” you demanded, feeling your temper flare. If you had been less tired or not in pain, that question would have playful. But you were tired and hurting so that question was grouchy. So was the rest of your statement. “Yes, I don’t wanna. No, I don’t care that is whinny. I’ve had a shitty night! I’ll whine if I want to!”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, spitfire. No hospital.”
As the anger drained, you felt a swell of guilt for yelling at him after he just saved your life. This was why you did your best to avoid people when your social batteries were running too low to manage basic human interaction. It seemed like you always ended up biting someone’s head off for no good reason.
“I’m sorry,” you said, shifting back onto your bottom. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against your knees. You didn’t care that your pants were dirty. You needed to hide. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just too tired to be peopling right now.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”
You cracked up an eye and turned your face to peer at him with that one eye. Again, it was almost impossible to get a read on his expression but he didn’t seem bothered. And vigilante like him probably did know a thing or too about having a temper. Suddenly feeling curious, you asked, “How good does it feel to punch crime in the face?”
A wolfish smirk spread across his face before he answered, “Sometimes very good. Why?”
You shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a career change. Punching bad guys sounds more fun than getting punched by bad guys.”
You got the impression he was giving you a very stern look from behind that mask. That mouth pressed together in a thin line was all disapproval. “How about you leave the punching bad guys to me and I’ll leave the baking to you?”
“How did you know I’m a baker?” you asked. Then felt a little stupid for asking. You were still wearing your chef’s jacket and an apron. It was pretty obvious that you worked with food . . .
“You smell like flour, yeast, butter, sugar, and spices which all says baker to me,” he said. “Through you also smell like peaches. The fruit, not the flowers.”
You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You also hadn’t realized that the scent of your peach beauty products were that strong. They smelled pretty light to you. But before you could think of a response to that, Daredevil rose to his feet. Which gave you a nice look at his legs which like his torso and arms was muscles for days barely contained by tight clothes. The black trousers weren’t quite as painted on as the shirt but they were snug enough. The naughtier parts of your mind wondered what it would be like to ride him, feeling those powerful thighs under you as he thrust up . . .
“Spitfire?”
Embarrassed warmth flood your face. While you were distracted, Daredevil had held out his hands and obviously asked if you wanted help standing. More than once if that amused smirk was any indication. You put your hands into his before you could embarrass yourself any further. A goal immediately challenged by watching the muscles in his arms flex as he helped pull you up onto your feet without a hint of strain. Because damn if that wasn’t hot . . .
Thankfully this time you managed not to become so distracted by the sexy vigilante that you just stood like there drooling like an idiot. You slide your hands out of his and then, to prevent yourself from staring at all those muscles (again), started looking for your crossbody bag. You hoped that the mugger had dropped it during the fight with Daredevil. Because as much as you wanted and needed your things back, you also would rather not get any closer to that man than you had to.
It didn’t matter that mugger was (probably) unconscious and (very probably) too beaten up to be a threat anymore. Not to anxiety brain. Anxiety brain was seldom appeased by such frivolities as fact and logic. So when you spied the large, still shape on the ground, your heart started racing again.
“Don’t worry about him.”
You looked over at Daredevil. He wasn’t even looking in the same direction that you were but still seemed to know what you were looking at. Almost like he read your mind . . . could he read your minds? God, you hoped not . . .
“I promise he’s not going anywhere soon,” Daredevil continued, his earlier rage coloring his voice a little. Part of you wanted to know what the mugger had done to make him so angry but most of you decided that you were better off not knowing. Your brain did not need help coming up with nightmares.
Feeling reassured by Daredevil’s confidence (and the knowledge that he was still between you and the mugger), you looked for your bag again . . . there it was. It was closer than you expected. You started to move closer but your foot encountered something. Something metal judging by the sound against the concrete. You looked, hoping it wasn’t the knife.
It wasn’t . . . too small . . . you knelt down and discovered your necklace. You picked it up, glad that you wouldn’t have to try to find something so small in such poor lighting or run the risk of it being gone by morning. Which it probably would have been. Aside from the broken chain, you hoped the rest of it was undamaged. You ran your thumb across the surface . . . it didn’t feel like any of stones had gotten chipped or cracked . . . the engraving could still be read . . .
“What are you doing?”
You jumped a little at the voice before remembering Daredevil. You were surprised he was still here. Weren’t there other damsels in distress he needed to be rescuing?
“Not at the moment.”
Either you were still saying things outloud without realizing it or Daredevil could absolutely read minds. You decided to believe the former because the latter was too mortifying to contemplate.
“Checking my favorite necklace,” you said as you darted forward and grabbed your bag. “Doesn’t feel like anything but the chain got broken.”
He nodded. “Ice those bruises when you get home – ten minutes on, twenty off. And try to keep your head elevated. After two days, you can use a heat compress.”
“Ice and prop up tonight, heat in a couple days,” you repeated. At his confirming nod, you asked, “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Just familiar with bruises” he said. “Trust me, spitfire, the bad guys often hit back when you’re punching them.”
You nodded, then realized that any further delay was just stalling. But as much as part of you wanted to keep talking – how often did you get a chance to talk to one of the city’s heroes? – the rest of you was still tired, still feeling jittery-numb from the panic attacks, and still hurting. And you had work tomorrow. It was time to call it a night.
“I guess this is good night,” you said, taking one last look at the vigilante. Odds were, the only time you’d see him again was in the newspaper.
“Good night, spitfire,” Daredevil said. Maybe it was projection but his smile looked a little sad. Like he also knew this was probably the first and only time you would ever see each other.
You paused when you reached the street to pick up your bag of food. It was probably a mess but you were definitely weren’t going to cook when you got home. As you walked away, you faintly heard the low rumble of Daredevil’s voice, presumably talking to the police on that phone.
Notes:
A Tale of Two Men is a reference to A Tale of Two Cities, an 1859 novel by Charles Dickens. I’m thinking about making all of the titles for this series reference book titles.
It occurred to me recently that my Reader characters in the series all are some level of anxious. Probably because I have anxiety and that colors how I perceive the world. Hence the Reader with anxiety.
The alien invasion is a reference to the events of Avengers I. Fair warning that some of the larger events of the MCU will not be depicted same as they were in canon. Accept that this is an alternate universe and move on.
I know Charlie Cox has brown hair but in some lighting for Matt Murdock, his hair does have reddish tint . . . and Matt in the comics is (generally speaking) a redhead so I’ve compromised by making Matt Murdock have dark auburn hair, the kind that looks brown unless the light hits it right and brings out the red.
Reader is sighted but knows how to read braille. The story behind this will be revealed later.
This knowledge is only reason Reader considers the misprinted menu of nonsense to be funny. She would have not find it funny if she found out about the misspellings and such after handing it to customers.
From my understanding, using the hands of a clock is the best way to tell a blind person where something is relative to their position. The menu of nonsense was right in front of Matt so at his 12 o’clock. Directly behind would have been his 6 o’clock, etc.
In braille, the symbols for numbers 1 – 9 and the letters A – I are the same along with J and 0. The number sign is written before tells you those symbols are meant to be read as numbers instead of letters. So 123 instead of ABC. If I have the information right, a second number sign is used to indict the end of the numbers and return to letters.
But all of my knowledge of braille is self-taught so don’t take my words as gospel here.
A red eye is a 12 oz (340 g) cup of drip coffee topped with a single or double shot of espresso.
A cappuccino is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso topped with a very frothy milk. It is slightly stronger than a latte because it has less milk.
A dirty chai latte is a coffee drink with a double shot of espresso, then a chai concentrate is poured into the milk which is frothed. Finally the milk and espresso are combined.
Crèma is a dense layer of foam that forms the top of an espresso shot and is a unique characteristic to the brewing method (forcing very hot water under pressure through finely ground compacted coffee).
At least in this fic, Matt Murdock is a proud member of The Pie Appreciation Society. The Society ranks include its long serving president Dean Winchester.
How much a lawyer makes a year depends on where they work and what kind of law they practice. People who work in public sector offices like a public defender or a state prosecutor generally make a comfortable living but they are never going to get wealthy doing that job. There are some lawyers who charge six figures or more per billable hour but those seem to be litigators and they aren’t as common as the associates who charge something less crazy (through probably still an eye-watering amount of money to some).
It’s Nelson & Murdock because (1) this takes place not too longer after the 3rd Season so they are still working out of the back of Nelson’s Meats and (2) New York law prohibits the formation of the Law Firm of Nelson, Murdock, and Page unless all three are attorneys. So if Karen wants her name on the sign, she has a law degree to earn and a bar exam to pass. Which she just might do in this universe.
The white cane is held in one’s dominant hand. I picked the left hand for Matt as another nod to his comic book counterpart who is (again usually) left-handed.
Esquire is an honorific title that is only used in the United States for lawyers for . . . reasons. No one seems to know why.
‘Flick the bean’ is a euphemism for female masturbation.
A chef's knife is a knife about 8 inches (20 cm) long used for chopping, slicing, and dicing meat and vegetables. Unless you have something like a meat cleaver, it is probably the biggest knife in your kitchen.
The favorite necklace is part of some story elements so this is not a generic favorite necklace but a specific favorite necklace. But if you want to mentally change the specific elements of its later description to better suit yourself, go right ahead.
A lobster clasp is the one that looks a like a lobster claw.
Matt is in the Black Suit since he has yet to replace the Red Suit – the old one being too damaged by the Midland Circle and only other one in existence was worn by the impostor who murdered people. A version of the Red Suit will eventually appear (since as hot as the black suit is, the guy without a healing factor needs body armor) but I’m still working out how.
The description of the panic attack (shortness of breath, sensory overload, etc) along with its aftereffects (exhaustion, mood swings, etc) are based on my experiences.
Spitfire is nickname for someone with a temper, possibly referencing the WW2 plane.
The treatment for bruises comes from internet so grains of salt are advised.
A chef's jacket is a double-breasted jacket with mandarin collar commonly worn by chefs and bakers, traditionally made from thick, white cotton cloth but can be made in different colors these days. The thickness of the jacket is meant to help protect the chef or baker from heat, steam, and splashing liquids in a busy kitchen. Frequently the jacket has long sleeves to help protect arms while reaching into the ovens.
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houpss · 10 months ago
Text
Hurt
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Lily had a panic attack during her performance
🧊–return to masterlist ¡! ✥
First person narration, angst, panic attacks, tears.
This was an important performance, SKZ prepared very carefully.I've been preparing for so long, I wanted to be the best for STAY, I wanted to be proud of me! It was a big award where we wanted to receive a big award, Daesang. The boys were tense, they did everything professionally that was needed. The performance was supposed to be with the song "MEGAVERSE" and everything turned out perfectly.
"What are our lovely lady thinking about?" Minho jokingly asked, patting me on the back as I was warming up in front of the studio mirror.
"I'm worried, Ho, I want to show YOU that I deserve to be a part of Stray kids." I bit my lip and shook my body before turning to Minho in a half turn.
"You are an integral part of us, and whoever disagrees with this goes fuck themselves," Minho said briefly, but very accurately. Lily laughed at his words
"What are you laughing at, it's time for us to go"
"And where are the others?"
"Seungmin and Changbin are now buying water for everyone, Chan is discussing some points with staff, and everyone else is waiting in the car. Come on,Bear...You're too slow"
I left with Minho, the atmosphere was quite tense and everyone felt it. We sat down in the car:I was sitting next to Felix, who was taking new selfies for Bubble and we took a selfie together; Jeongin had already fallen asleep on Chan's shoulder, Changbin and Hyunjin were jokingly arguing; Seungmin was listening to music on headphones, and Jison and Minho were pestering each other. Lily exhaled and whispered to Felix, "I'm so worried, freckle..as if I don't have the right to make mistakes."
"Oh... Lily..this is absolutely normal, our work anticipates constant stress. Firstly, you are an ordinary living person and life without mistakes is impossible, STAY will love you any, like other Members, you will not get worse from this," Felix said with a smile and took Lily's hand in his, he understood how important support is to her now.
Some fans literally used the phrase "I'm ot8, but Lily..."
I put my head on Felix's shoulder, and he squeezed my hand harder.
We arrived at the filming location, and staff began to prepare us. I had bright makeup done with black shaded arrows, blue lenses were put on and the tone of my face was adjusted so that it shone aesthetically, perfectly. My dyed burgundy hair was twisted into a lot of curls, and my clothes were a rather strict version, an earpiece was hooked on my ear.The boys were having fun and laughing, of course it was loud and noisy in the SKZ Dressing Room...I tried to join in their conversation, but I just made it worse for myself.I don't belong here.I looked at myself in the mirror, my throat constricted, I just whispered to myself:"a living doll." I don't want to be here, I have to be somewhere else. Why such thoughts?The first signs of anxiety.
Chan noticed my condition and gently patted me on the shoulder: "Princess,is everything okay?".I'm scared."Chan frowned and took me to the nearest couch so the boys wouldn't see them.He stroked her hands with his fingers, his lips briefly kissed her forehead so as not to erase the tone from her face."My beautiful one, you are perfect and everything will go well, you make the STAY and boys so happy. You'll like this performance," Chan patted his back and gave a bottle of water in his hands, "And after the award we'll go home and watch some movie, okay?"
I nodded and hugged him briefly, my lips were frozen: "Thank you, my love"
It was time to go on stage, I gave the boys a bright smile and we went on stage to the noisy STAY, it became dark.The spotlight fell on me, and I took a deep breath, ready to dive into the dance. But suddenly my heart started pounding wildly, pounding loudly in my chest, I'm suffocating again. The light became blinding, the sounds became unbearable, and the air around me became suffocating. My vision was blurred, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. Tears welled up in my eyes, I want to cry so much, fear gripped me. I was engulfed by a powerful force that engulfed me, completely paralyzing me. Every muscle in my body was tense, and it was impossible to control the waves of panic that were spreading through me.I was engulfed by a powerful force that engulfed me, completely paralyzing me. Every muscle in my body was tense, and it was impossible to control the waves of panic that were spreading through me. I desperately tried to regain control, to suppress the panic, but it continued to intensify. The adrenaline coursing through my veins only fueled the fire of my anxiety. The performance I had been working so hard on was slipping away, disappearing into the darkness around me. The music deafened me, I looked around in confusion, it's time to perform. My body was moving, I didn't understand what I was doing, my body was working automatically.The reality of the situation has dissolved, and all that remains is an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Thoughts raced through my head, saying that I wasn't good enough, that I would embarrass myself in front of everyone. It was as if the weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders, hampering my every move.It was my turn to play, my body continued to move gracefully at the same time sharply, singing broke from my lips, I tried my best to suppress tears and shaking in my body, just not now, please.During one of the elements of the choreography, I exchanged glances with Hyunjin when the scenes were going on at the frn while there was a part of Jison. Hyunjin nodded to me softly and squeezed my hand for a moment, and I smiled gratefully.With all my determination, I overcame my fear. The path ahead was uncertain, but I didn't let panic dictate my fate. The support of my boys and the love of art that fueled my passion became beacons of light leading me forward. "Welcome to the Stray Kids HOT MEGAVERSE" Felix and I dictated this last line together. The lights went out, and Staye's deafening support swept through the hall.When the last notes echoed through the hall, I was overcome by a sense of accomplishment. I faced my fears face to face without giving in to panic. It wasn't a flawless performance, but it was filled with sincere emotions and unwavering determination.The applause that followed was dedicated not only to the performance, but also to the resilience and strength it took to overcome my panic attack.I exhaled exhausted and we went down from the stage to the idol area. I bowed politely to my friends and colleagues. We sat down at our table, and under the table I felt Chan's supportive grip and Hyunjin's proud gaze.I squeezed Chan's fingers under the table.From that day on, I vowed never to let fear dictate my path. I knew that panic attacks were part of my personality, but they didn't define me. I will continue my work. I'm part of the Stray Kids. Hwang Lily will never fade away.
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stardust-and-snickerdoodles · 5 months ago
Text
and i'll find strength in pain
fandom: Bones (TV)
pairing: Lance Sweets & Reader
summary: You were the victim of a violent attack a few weeks ago. Agent Booth has been a comfort for you, but he's out of his depth. He suggests you visit Dr. Sweets to talk about what happened to you.
tags/warnings: rape aftermath/recovery (implied), sh, anxiety, panic attacks, dissociation, emotional hurt/comfort, therapy
word count: 3334
a/n: this one's for all the people who are still thinking about lance sweets 10 years later and who, to this day, refuse to watch ep 10x1. if i don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist
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There’s a plaque on the door. It reads 2475, DR. LANCE SWEETS, Clinical Psychologist. You practically have the words memorized. You’ve been standing here for nearly five minutes, working up the courage to knock. Every time you raise your fist to do so, it trembles so violently that you drop it again. Agent Booth’s words ring in your ears from when he dropped you off:
Look for office 2475. Sweets will be able to help you.
Sweets will be able to help you.
Can anyone really help you though?
It’s been 2 weeks since the attack, and the five men who cornered you in that alley still haven’t been found. Your skin still prickles with the phantom of their touch. Every time you close your eyes, you see their sneering faces, their bulging eyes. You can’t walk home from work anymore. You can’t even drive past the alley without having to pull over and take 10 deep breaths, counting in for 3, out for 3.
How could anyone, anyone, help you with that?
Agent Booth has been kind so far. He’s not on your case, since it’s technically the state’s responsibility, but he’s the one who found you that night. He’s the one who drove you to the hospital while you were unconscious, stayed until you were awake. He wasn’t even deterred when you scrambled away from him, the sight of another man’s face leaving you panicking. He sat calmly and reassured you that you were safe and left his phone number on a napkin on your bedside table, along with a scrawled note, reading:
Call if you need anything. I can help you file a case.
You’d taken him up on the offer, calling the next day. He helped you make a report with the state, sat with you while you described your attackers to the forensic sketch artist. Although he’s not the most equipped to handle your moments of panic, never quite sure what to do, he still sits with you and talks you through it. Eventually, though, he must have realized he was out of his depth, because he referred you here.
To a psychologist.
For whatever reason, it’s ingrained in your mind that seeing a psychologist means you’re broken. You don’t want to think that way, but it’s hard not to. After what you went through, it’s easy to believe such things about yourself. Broken. Impure. Damaged.
You shake yourself out of your thoughts and suck in a deep breath. You wonder if Dr. Sweets knows you’re standing out here. The embarrassment of that thought is finally what allows you to work up the courage to knock. Three quiet taps on the door.
“Come in,” a voice responds.
You open the door slowly and peek around the edge. “Are you… Dr. Sweets?”
The man looks up from his desk. You’re taken aback by how young he is. Surely this isn’t the FBI psychologist? He’s so… well, young. Still, it’s better than some middle-aged man, someone like the men who attacked you-
You shake yourself and step inside as he responds. “That would be me.” His smile is gentle and reassuring. “Are you Y/N?”
You nod, stopping just inside the door. You’re unsure of where to go – there’s a couch and a chair facing it, but there’s also a chair in front of his desk where he sits… Which one? Where do you go? You stand awkwardly, waiting for some sort of direction.
Dr. Sweets stands, smoothing out his suit jacket. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the couch.
A swell of gratitude washes over you at his clear instruction. You seat yourself gingerly on the edge of the cushion, locking your hands together in front of you. Dr. Sweets takes the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He observes you for a moment, eyes searching, and you shrink into yourself a bit. It feels exposing to be in front of him, like he can see all your secrets without you saying anything. Your eyes roam the room and the walls, trying to find something to distract yourself.
“How are you?” Sweets asks gently.
You swallow thickly and look down at your hands. “Fine… Agent Booth said I should talk to you.”
He nods. “Yes, he gave me a quick briefing on your situation. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?”
You avert your eyes, looking to the walls again. There’s a large window on the one to your right, but the blinds are closed. You wish he would open them so you could look somewhere else besides his probing eyes. “I guess so.” Your voice is shaky. You clear your throat to try to hide it.
Sweets, meanwhile, has been carefully taking in your body language and movement. He’d heard you hesitating outside the door, heard your soft pacing footsteps and rapid breathing. Since you walked in the door, he’s realized that he needs to take a gentle, soft approach with you. He doesn’t want to push you too far. From what Booth told him, the assault is still fresh in your memory. “First of all, I just want to say that you’re very brave for coming here. I know it can be scary to talk about these things and I’m very proud of you for taking this step. You’re safe here, and you’re totally in control. If you ever want to stop, or you don’t want to talk about something, you just say the word, alright?”
You nod, mostly subconsciously. His words feel empty, although there’s a sincerity too them. You just can’t bring yourself to believe him yet.
Sweets sees through you right away. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Do you believe that you’re safe here?”
Your response comes out as barely a whisper. “No…”
He nods gently. “Can you tell me why?”
You look down at your hands again, twisting them around the opposite wrists. The movement is soothing, grounding. “I don’t… feel safe anywhere. It’s too new. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there…” You close your eyes briefly, but snap them open again when disturbing images fill your head. “I can’t escape it. Everyone is someone who could hurt me…” You drift off as you realize how much you’re giving away. These are the things you’ve kept close to your chest; it feels wrong to be saying them to a stranger.
Sweets can tell immediately when you start to become more uncomfortable. He eyes your hands, watching your fidgeting. He takes a moment to think before speaking again. He must tread carefully; he can’t risk you shutting down before he’s even gotten a chance to talk to you. “How about we stick to yes/no questions for now? Would that be easier?”
You shrug, twisting your hands a bit more roughly as the images continue to plague you. “Sure.”
“Are you aware of your surroundings at all times? Always… looking for danger?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah…”
Sweets keeps his voice gentle and quiet, but his mind is racing. The psychologist in him is searching for coping mechanisms, for things to say that might help; the human in him is fighting the desire to reach out and just comfort you. “Do you experience nightmares? Bad dreams?”
You nod again, eyes flicking back to the closed window. “Yes.”
“Do you ever have panic attacks? Moments of overwhelming fear or anxiety?”
You look up at the ceiling, twisting your hands harder. It begins to burn, but the feeling is good. It keeps you in the here and now. “I don’t know… maybe.”
Sweets watches where your eyes move, sees how you avoid eye contact at all costs. His own eyes dart to your wrists. Your fidgeting has grown more aggressive. He can see where your skin is becoming red and irritated. He frowns slightly. “Can I see your wrists?”
Your movements suddenly still and you shake your head. Shame floods your face.
Sweets notices the quick change in your demeanor. “Okay, we don’t have to look at them. Does the twisting help?”
You nod. “It… feels good. Calming.”
Sweets nods and files this information away for later. He’s going to help you find some healthier coping mechanisms – you can’t keep hurting yourself to stay grounded. “I get that. Do you want a stress ball or something? Something so you’re not hurting yourself?” He can already predict your answer, but it’s worth a shot.
You shake your head and grip your hands on your wrists. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Sweets leans back in his chair again. He wants to ask you about the assault, but you’re still so closed off. “Do you want some water? Maybe something else to drink, or eat?” He stands to retrieve a bottle for himself, hoping that it will make you feel more comfortable if he does it first.
Still, you shake your head. “I’m okay… do you have more questions?” You eyes drift to the door.
The young psychologist instantly notices your desire to leave and heads back to his seat, water in hand. He wants you to stay, wants you to start talking about this instead of bottling it up. “Couple more. Is that okay?”
You settle back onto the couch, hunching a bit to try and make yourself smaller. “Yeah…”
“You’re doing great,” Sweets offers you a reassuring smile although you’re not looking at him. “Can we talk about the attack?”
You hesitate, images flashing through your mind, before nodding. This is what you’re here for isn’t it? You can’t leave now. “What… what do you want to know?”
Sweets observes your closed-off posture, the hunch of your shoulders. This is going to take a while. He adjusts in his chair, trying to get comfortable while still staying professional. He speaks gently. “What were you doing before the attack?”
“Working,” you murmur. “I walked home.”
“Were you alone?”
You hum in affirmation, nodding your head. It had been so dark… The streetlight near the alley was out, you were walking through a shaded part of the sidewalk when they grabbed you…
Sweets watches as your eyes go glassy. He recognizes the beginning signs of dissociation and immediately works to pull you out of it, switching gears. “Where do you work?”
You shake yourself lightly and stare at the wall again. Your eyes settle on a divot in the paint, a spot where it’s been chipped away by a nail or something. “Newspaper… I’m a journalist.”
He nods and tilts his head at you, feeling a swell of pity. This really did a number on you. Booth described it to him, but he hadn’t gone into all the details… Clearly it was horrific if it’s causing you to be this dissociated and anxious. “That’s cool. Did you always want to be a journalist?”
For the first time, you meet his eyes. This topic is safe. These are things you can discuss. He offers you another reassuring smile as you shake your head. “I… wanted to be an astronaut. But my eyesight isn’t good enough.”
Sweets laughs lightly at the answer and you can’t help but crack your own small grin. His laugh is comforting, nothing at all like the men who attacked you… You shiver and refocus on his voice. “There’s a reason there aren’t many astronauts. Those requirements are very restrictive.” Sweets clears his throat and adjusts himself in his chair. You steel yourself, waiting for his next question. His distraction technique was effective, but now he has to get back to business. “So, you were walking home from work alone. What happened next?”
You swallow thickly and look back at the divot in the wall. Your hands go back to your wrists, feeling the warmth where you’ve managed to irritate your skin already. “I was walking by an alley… There were five men coming toward me. I was about to cross the street…” You suddenly are back in that moment, thinking the thoughts you were then. Your keys were clutched in one hand. Your other hand was shoved in your purse, gripping a small bottle of pepper spray. Your jaw was clenched, heart racing as you realized the danger you were in.
Sweets clears his throat to get your attention and you shake yourself out of your reverie. “You were about to cross the street. What then?”
“Um, they… they were quicker than me. They grabbed me and dragged me into the alley…” Your eyes go blank again. The divot in the wall seems to grow, a spec of grey that overtakes your vision. The world around you goes hazy. Sweets’s voice is a muffled background noise. Vaguely, you register the feeling of tears brimming in your eyes, of your hands twisting roughly against your wrists. The pain feels good, but it’s not enough.
Sweets watches closely, expecting you to continue, but then he notices the blank look on your face. You’ve gone completely still, save for your twisting hands. He observes you as you go pale, barely blinking. You’re completely shut down. “Y/N? Can you hear me?” He keeps his voice soft, gentle, trying not to scare you. He doesn’t know how far gone you are yet. He watches as your body begins to tremble, as your hands speed up in their motions. Your nails begin to catch against your skin, making harsh red lines across your wrists. Sweets knows he has to break you out of this, has to bring you back down to reality.
He stands slowly, walking around the coffee table to crouch in front of the couch where you sit. “Y/N. Listen to my voice. You’re safe here. You’re in my office at the FBI Headquarters. I’m Dr. Sweets, we’re here talking together. You’re safe, you’re not in danger anymore.” He keeps his voice level and soothing. He wants to reach out and touch you, but doesn’t want to jolt you. His eyes go back to your wrists, noticing how aggressively you’re scratching yourself. If you don’t come out of this soon, he will have to stop you from hurting yourself.
“Darling, listen to me.” The affectionate name slips out before he can stop himself. “Look at me if you can. You’re right here. You’re sitting on the couch in my office. You’re safe, I promise.” His words seem to be having no effect. If anything, your motions are becoming more frantic, your eyes more distant. Sweets sucks in a deep breath, hating what he has to do now.
He reaches out slowly to grip your wrists, wrenching them apart. You flinch at the touch, the first reaction he’s seen. He hates that it seems to be causing you more anguish, but you were near to drawing blood. He holds your wrists firmly, continuing to speak. “Listen, Y/N. I can’t let you hurt yourself. But you’re safe. Once you’re back with me, I’ll let you go, but you need to listen to me. You’re safe here. You’re not in any danger.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. He’s dealt with dissociation and panic attacks before, of course, but knowing the circumstances of yours makes it so much harder.
The wavering in his voice is what finally draws you back to reality. You blink slowly, and the divot on the wall shrinks back to where it belongs. Sweets’s voice becomes clearer, and you realize the firm grip on your wrists is his, not your attackers’. A choked sob forces itself from your throat as you look down at your joined hands. Suddenly your breaths come in gasps as you realize how deprived of oxygen you are.
Sweets loosens his grip a bit, realizing that you’re back with him. “There, shh. I have you.” He rubs soothing circles on your wrists, subtly reaching for your pulse with two fingers. It’s rapid, but steady. “You’re safe, I’ve got you. Deep breaths now.” He does some exaggerated breaths, trying to meet your gaze. You still stare at his hands on your own, but it’s not with glassy eyes. He lets out his own quiet sigh of relief.
You try to school your breathing, mimicking his slow breaths. Eventually, with his soft words and gentle coaching, you manage to soothe yourself.
Sweets finally relinquishes his hold on your hands, staying crouched in front of you. “There we are. Keep taking those deep breaths.”
You meet his eyes unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” the words come out quiet and broken.
Sweets shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s perfectly reasonable to have such a reaction.”
You clasp your hands together in your lap, staring at the red lines that now adorn your wrists. You’ve never irritated your skin so much, and you feel embarrassed to have done so in front of this psychologist.
He tries to meet your gaze, attempting to draw your eyes from the injuries. “Let’s take a break, yeah? We can try again another day.” He offers you a small smile.
You nod. “I think… that would best.” You feel shaky and off-balance from the panic attack.
Sweets stands, being careful not to tower over you. He heads back to the fridge, retrieving a water bottle for you and a small packet of crackers. He sets them on the couch next to you before returning to his chair. He makes a point not to look at you, not wanting you to feel cornered or judged.
You take a slow sip from the water, all of a sudden feeling parched. You’re not sure what to say, not sure if you should leave now, or if you should stay. When you’re done drinking, you set the bottle down again and look at your lap.
Sweets clears his throat quietly and leans forward again. “Feel free to hang out here as long as you need. If you want to keep talking, I’m just going to be at my desk, okay?”
You nod, grateful that he won’t be staring at you. You don’t feel quite steady enough to get up and drive home yet, so you settle back into the couch, taking slow sips from the water and nibbling on small bits of cracker. Sweets taps away on his computer, occasionally glancing up at you to make sure you’re okay.
The panic attack left you feeling exhausted, and you’re trying hard not to fall asleep, but the couch is very comfortable, and you somehow feel safe here. Your head keeps lolling to the side and you have to shake yourself to stay awake. Sweets looks up and catches this at one point. He smiles to himself and calls to you gently. “Rest. It’s okay; you’re safe. Do you want a blanket?”
You fidget with your hands again, stifling a yawn. You’re too tired to even try to protest, so you nod your head. He stands and retrieves a fluffy blanket from a nearby closet, handing it to you. You thank him and wrap it around yourself, settling more comfortably into the couch as he walks back to the desk.
The next time Sweets looks up, you’re curled up on your side on the couch, breathing deeply with your eyes closed. He smiles again, feeling honored that you feel safe enough in his presence to sleep. He shoots a quick text to Booth letting him know that you’re ready to be picked up. Booth of course wants to know how the session went, but Sweets leaves him on read. You can tell him yourself, if you feel comfortable enough to do so.
Although Sweets didn’t manage to get you to open up as much as he’d have liked, he truly didn’t expect to. You’ve been through hell, and it’s going to take a long time to walk out of that. Still, he feels he’s made progress. You trust him, even if it’s just a small amount.
He has a feeling he’ll be seeing you again very soon.
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rewrittenwrongs · 3 months ago
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It’s the first of October in my timezone, which means it’s time to post my first Whumptober fill! I chose the prompt Panic Attack.
Heavily inspired by the lovely @brucewaynehater101’s Wingless Wing AU
Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | Whumptober masterpost | part 1 | part 2 coming soon
TW: past wing removal, mentions of anti-hybrid sentiments, mentions of trafficking/selling body parts, panic attack, accidental self harm (biting lip until it bleeds to ground himself), and a very very non detailed instance of vomiting
Dragons were the rarest hybrids out there.
They were some of the most well known, too. Everyone’s heard of dragon hybrids. They’re like the role models of the hybrid world, the knights and princesses children look up to, or the monsters under your bed if you’re not a hybrid. Usually, they’re treated much the same as true dragons: fictional. Mythical. Imaginary.
Now, if you were especially interested in them, or studied genetics or hybrid physiology, you’d know they were real. You’d know they often had huge wingspans comparable to the largest of seabird hybrids, and airborne agility almost on par with hummingbirds. You’d know they were rumoured to command the wind itself when they flew. You’d know their scales were tough and beautiful and practically immune to fire. You’d know lead was one of the only things capable of burning them while they lived. You’d know full blooded dragon hybrids could have long, magnificent tails and dramatic horns, claws instead of fingers or toes, slitted pupils that could see in the dark and scales tougher than wood.
You’d also know that, while they did exist once, they were hunted for their wings and scales and horns. They haven’t been officially pronounced extinct but neither has any other long-gone hybrid species. Anyone with passing knowledge of them knew they weren’t around anymore, outside the odd museum exhibit or old photo. Any rumour of still living dragon hybrids today was just that: a rumour. Though, the general populace—just the hybrids, really—loved to spread stories of them going into hiding. Using magic to cloak themselves until the day they could walk safely among humans.
Jason knows a lot about dragon hybrids. Much more than your average hybrid, and probably more than even a hybrid physiologist. He had a hyperfixation on them for a time, even before that pair of dragon wings started being passed around Gotham’s underworld.
He knows all the myths and folklore about dragon hybrids being born with an affinity for magic, about them using their skills to hide themselves from poachers and traffickers, building enchanted necklaces or broaches that disguised them as regular humans. He’s heard the legends of them being born of fire itself, being immune to temperatures that would render metal liquid, even being able to summon or control it. About burning their dead ones to return them to the ashes and embers they were once created from, as heat only blackened their scales after death. He’s heard the tales of dragons being kidnapped as children for their wings, because of a very special property of theirs: even after their wings were cut off they stayed magically connected to the hybrid, and grew along with them. It was much easier to kidnap and mutilate children than it was adults, and then they could use the hybrids as slaves, since they had to stay alive anyway for the wings to grow.
A lot of the myths—folklore, children’s tales, nursery rhymes—were about a dragon losing their wings and getting them back. A common theme among legends was the tie between wings and hybrid: a tie that, if the wings weren’t skinned or carved away for trophies, allowed the hybrid to reconnect them.
Jason tried not to get his hopes up, but he had to admit, once he finally tracked down those wings the other crime lords kept playing hot potato with… it would be nice if he could track down their owner and return them. Even if all there was to be done was bury or burn the things and give the hybrid a proper funeral.
Now, with the childhood hyperfixation and the elusive pair of trafficked wings that have been evading him for as long as he’s been Red Hood, he has a lot of respect for dragon hybrids. Combine that with all the hybrid trafficking rings he’s taken down, both as Red Hood and as Robin, you can see why he’s pissed about Tim’s new gliders.
Ever since Damian became Robin, since Tim swapped suits and changed title, he’d altered his glider to look like dragon wings. Dragon. Wings.
Now, it’s been almost five months since Tim came back and handed over all the info about Bruce’s whereabouts and proved he was alive, about four since they actually got Bruce back. There’s still some tension between everyone, but things have settled down a lot. But. Quite a bit of the tension could be blamed on those damn. Gliders.
Jason was actually glad when he saw them get set on fire a few nights ago; huge holes burning into the material and making Tim abandon it before the engine caught fire too. He tried a little to convince Tim to swap back to a design more feather-like but he was adamant. Jason could understand wanting to imitate the others, it must be tough being one of the only non-hybrids in the family, but WHY did he have to imitate dragon hybrids of all things? Because they’re cool? It’s insensitive and in bad taste!
That said, Jason had been biting his tongue about the issue. But tonight, when he swung by the cave, he came across Tim in the workshop, tinkering around and probably trying to improve his newest glider model. It’s the first time Jason’s seen the prototype. He can’t keep quiet anymore.
“You’re seriously sticking with dragon wings?”
Tim didn’t look up, didn’t turn to face him. “Yes. I’ve told you, I’m not changing my mind.”
Right. Jason’s definition of ‘biting his tongue’ was a little different than most’s. “You do know they’re real hybrids, right?”
“Yes, you’ve infodumped to me about them before.” He kept serenely fitting the scale-patterned material in place, connecting panels and hiding wire mesh and metal supports. “It’s no more cultural appropriation than my previous gliders were.”
Jason bristled. Tim has had some form of glider since he first debuted as Robin, and they were all styled after bird wings, designed to look like feathers. Like the Robins before him. Not the most feared, segregated, hunted, and literally extinct hybrid species in existence!
Jason had to take several deep breaths to stop himself from shooting the things then and there. Tim had already put together most of the emergency engine, the jetpack or ‘batpack’ as it was jokingly called: shooting it would just cause a huge explosion and an even huger mess. Not to mention Tim was in the way, he didn’t want to resort to physical injury just yet. “Clearly you weren’t listening when I told you about how often they were trafficked and poached for their wings.”
Tim huffed, still refusing to even turn his head. “I heard you. I just don’t see a problem with this.”
“So you don’t have a problem with the severed pair of dragon wing currently being traded through Gotham’s underworld?”
Tim froze.
There’s the reaction he’s been looking for. A bit of Jason’s vindictive glee seeped into his voice. “You didn’t know? There have been rumours about them since I was putting heads in duffel bags. Even the Joker knows about them. The hybrid is almost certainly dead by now. And still, their wings are being toted from warehouse to warehouse, crate to crate, one hand to someone else’s. It’s only a matter of time before someone keeps them for good and turns them into a pair of cloaks and an interesting taxidermy.”
“What do they look like?”
Jason blinked. Then his rage swelled so fiercely he could barely see or breathe. He wanted to know what they looked like!? WHY!? So he could take notes? Make his glider more realistic? WHAT THE FUCK.
Jason very nearly exploded about it, but then he caught sight of something that made him pause for a split second: Tim’s hands, curled into fists against his work, shaking slightly. Then as he paused he caught sight of something else: the slope of his shoulders, hunched, defensive, quivering. He was leaning forward like his knees would collapse any second.
Jason hesitated. Well, maybe... maybe if he answered he would learn why Tim reacted like that, or at least learn enough to infer. If it was so he could make his glider more realistic he could just shoot him.
He’s only seen them once, for a few seconds, but they were beautiful—and heartbreaking—enough he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget them. “They’re red. Crimson. Big, but built like they’re kind of small. Curved, streamline, built for speed and agility. They’re almost iridescent, the right lighting makes them shine gold.”
Tim shuddered, violently, then collapsed, vomiting onto the stone floor.
“Woah—Tim—“ Jason darted forward, dropping into a kneel beside Tim with a flair of his wings. He reached for his shoulders automatically but Tim jerked away like he’d stabbed him, letting out a choked exclamation. Jason pulled back and let his wings settle over him instead, shielding but not touching. “Tim?”
He hesitated as Tim scrambled to his feet, shoulders hunched and arms jerky like his back was on fire. His breathing was loud and uneven and there was a tear on his cheek. His eyes were red and wild, darting around like he was searching desperately for an escape, like he didn’t know where he was. Jason got back up on his knees in preparation for following. He kept a wing hovering over Tim’s back. “Tim? What—“
Tim stumbled into an uneven run, arms more jerking than swinging, footfalls uneven like he was accounting for weight that wasn’t there. Jason hoped he was putting things together wrong.
Jason followed a few steps behind as Tim ran for the exit, and caught him when he stumbled and collapsed in the doorway. He was muttering over and over, “Please don’t please stop please stop stop stop,” between horrible, gut deep sobs. He fought against Jason for a moment but stopped quickly, leaning as far away as he could get, but not putting up a physical fight. He was hyperventilating.
Jason kept his hold secure, thinking back to the last—and until now, only—time he’d seen Tim having a panic attack: the sight of his hands in his hair and on his shoulders and blood running through his fingers and down his chin. Right now his arms were mostly pinned at his sides, hands struggling to curl around Jason’s arms, still protected by his jacket and armour. Jason kept his grip away from his shoulders and upper back in case his hunch was right. He curled one wing around Tim’s front, gently, just enough to brush against his face and legs. “Hey, hey hey, it’s okay, no one’s hurting you.”
Tim whined and tossed his head, fingers scrabbling against Jason’s forearms. Tears dripped from his chin. Blood was beading on his lip.
Jason bit off a swear. He’d forgotten he was still wearing his mask, the voice modulator always bothered Tim when he was already on edge. He adjusted his grip so he had one arm around Tim’s waist, still pinning an arm, and one wing caving him in, and used his spare hand to remove his metal mask.
Tim’s struggle renewed when he sensed apparent weakness, shoving and kicking, but he was off balance and uncoordinated and all he achieved was making Jason’s wing curl tighter around him. The sensation seemed to throw him off. Confusion bled into the features that weren’t twisted with pain and fear.
“Tim, can you try to breathe for me?” Jason said. He placed his mask on the ground and used his other wing to slide it away quietly.
Tim sobbed, chest heaving, shoulders quivering. “Stop. It hurts.”
Jason’s heart ached. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Tim’s entire frame jerked with the force of his next sob. Tears splashed to the ground like little shards of shattering glass. They were joined by a droplet of blood.
Jason made a cooing noise low in his throat, humming in a way that never came quite as naturally as it did before his death. He tried to imitate Dick’s comforting calls. Tim pressed his face into the feathers of Jason’s wing, hands like iron bands around his arm.
Jason repeated the noise, tentatively reaching out and stroking a hand through his hair. It got longer while he was searching for Bruce, and he hasn’t cut it yet.
Tim stayed tense as a taut wire, but didn’t curl into or away from the feeling. Jason couldn’t tell if his breathing was getting faster or slower. “It hurts,” he sobbed, “it hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop, please make it stop.”
Jason scrambled for what to do. He kept stroking through Tim’s hair. Maybe—his mother used to…
Jason cleared his throat and quietly began to sing.
His voice has never been quite as smooth and full as it was before his death. It’s not rough or unpleasant, necessarily, but he became unnervingly aware of the difference as he began singing the same song Catherine sang when he was too scared to sleep. There was a faint shakiness, a fragility that caused pain if he tried to yell, not to mention he couldn’t hit half the notes. He kept it quiet, low, a poor rendition of a dead woman’s lullaby.
Tim kept muttering, kept begging and sobbing, but the faintest hints of awareness were gradually starting to fill his eyes.
His arms squeezed Jason’s forearm around his middle.
His feet shifted against the ground like he was searching for purchase.
He pressed his head, lightly, into Jason’s feathers with a whine.
A shudder wracked through him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” His voice was slurred and uneven.
Finally, he stopped speaking to a threat that wasn’t there.
With another violent shiver, he began looking around a little. Staring at the wrist of Jason’s wing. At the arm pinning him in place, then at the body he was half slumped onto.
Tim whined loudly, longingly, so eerily similar to calls for safety-protection-flock that it made Jason’s hindbrain go crazy. Tim began shifting against his brother’s hold, in a different way than before. Jason kept an arm and wing around him but let him move, a little wary. Tim twisted around until he and Jason were front to front, at which point he collapsed onto him with a low mournful sound, head beneath his chin and arms curling loosely around him.
Jason wrapped both arms tighter around him, keeping them on his lower back, and shifted them both until Jason was lying on his back with Tim half on top of him, tented beneath his wings. He kept singing the entire time, now on his third rendition of the lullaby. Tim had stopped mumbling. He hadn’t stopped shaking or crying. His breaths were better but still shaky and erratic.
Jason continued carding through his hair. He seemed to like that. And the singing, Jason kept that up too, even though his throat was beginning to tickle.
After a few minutes he noticed the tears had stopped and his breath had evened out. Tim was asleep. Jason didn’t blame him, panic attacks were exhausting. He carried him through the elevator and up the stairs to his room, set Tim in his bed and himself in a beanbag, despite all his instincts screaming about flock and physical contact and protection and perceived abandonment. He distracted himself with Tim’s copy of The Little Prince. In the original French, nice.
Tim awoke seventy minutes later. Not that Jason was counting. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, sporting an impressive bedhead. He licked his lips. His eyes landed on Jason and shifted rapidly from confusion to understanding to fear. He curled the blanket into his fist.
“You have some explaining to do.”
Tim huffed as if he thought this really was all blown out of proportion. As if. “Not here. My Nest.”
Ah, the Nest, Tim’s seperate base of operations and regular hang-out spot for Young Justice, not to be confused with the nest, an elevated platform of ropes and mattresses and blankets inside the Batcave. Not confusing at all.
Jason actually felt proud for a split second upon realising he was welcome in Tim’s safe space, an honour none of the other bats held, before remembering no, actually, this wasn’t trust this was fear. Fear caused by him, however accidental.
“Let’s go, then.”
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rae-butter · 6 days ago
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I feel like what makes being a secret superhero with a civilian identity so difficult is the fact that this superhero with implausible abilities is trying to pose as a normal human being.
If you’re going to pretend to be a civilian, why go for normal when you can pretend to be just mentally unstable enough to justifiably disappear but not enough to be sent to a mental asylum?
*At the mall and a villain shows up*
Secret super hero: I have to go. Don’t follow me.
Bestie who thinks they’re having a panic attack: Do what you gotta do.
*At the secret superhero hero’s house*
Secret speedster, pacing at the speed of light and fidgeting like crazy: uh, sorry. ADHD is acting up.
Naive bestie: I got you.
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Me: *Reading an angst fic* My speaker: *Starts playing Wannabe by Spice Girls* Me: *Starts straight queer jamming* Character: *Starts having a panic attack* Me: Tell me what'cha want, what'cha really really want-
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daflangstlairde-art · 2 months ago
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attached, severed (you're here, you're not), word count: 4,763
Work 2 of DFL's Whumptober 2024
Summary:
The Technodrome never wanted to let Donnie go of its own volition. Krang One quite literally had to pull him out. Something terrible lingers, not quite gone. (Alternatively, The Prison Dimension never wanted to let Leo go of its own volition. Mikey quite literally had to pull him out. Something terrible lingers, not quite gone.)
Okay, so, everything was a little woozy. Leo would be right back on his feet, like, tomorrow at most—sure, Krang One beat up pretty solid, after they’d already had a whole big time fighting, but they're tough! Mutants, huh? Couple of bruises, couple of strains, that sort of thing. Some cracks along his carapace, yeah, yeah, nothing lethal. 
But he was still bed-bound, mostly due to his fam’s worries. He didn't wanna worry them, because he will be okay, he was fine. It was really a very small price to pay for, y'know, saving the entire world. Heroes simply do this kinda thing. It's what they do. 
Anyway, point was: Leo was on pain meds and maybe kinda had just a little concussion. Just a tiny bit. 
So. He was dozing off. The lights in med bay were pleasantly low, and the beeping of the heart monitor and Donnie’s tapping around on his tech were pretty soothing. 
Leo was just focusing on resting. Feeling the way his plastron would gently rise and fall, as the air passed through his nostrils and throat and lungs and abdomen. Yeah, okay, the sensation had to pass through some obstacles, like bruised ribs or a bruised throat, but really, it was okay. Considering everything, it was okay. The bruises were already halfway faded after just a day or two of resting. Or however long it’s been. Not like he was all that conscious for it.
He still had all four limbs. He still had all three brothers alive. Earth kept spinning. Leo kept breathing in the faint smell of antiseptic and bandages. 
So, he didn't really care for a random tap-tap-beep from somewhere off to the side. Donnie was just moving around quietly, doing whatever Donnie did. It was sweet, the way he also fussed. Heck, Leo heard him shoo Mikey and Raph away to go make dinner. 
Leo’s eyes were closed, but he sorta just sensed the presence of his twin approach. Probably to fuss over him more, haha. Man was Leo lucky to have brothers who love him so much. Even when he was being a bit of a dunce. 
He loved them so much. So, so much. It was so much bigger than some bruises and sprains and whatnot. 
He swallowed and oh, he should drink some water. Tried to crack his eyes open. His eyelids stuck, and when they finally gave way to vision, they were heavy. Leo breathed. He blinked lightly, to clear up his sight. 
“Hey,” he said, voice a bit raspy, to the sight of his twin standing over him. Couldn't help but smile up at him. 
...
Donnie was... looking at him weird. A kind of... stare. Kinda like the way your sleep paralysis shadow man stares at you at 3 a.m. haha.
“Wha’s with th’ look?” Leo huffed in amusement. “Got somethin’ on m’ face?” 
Donnie stared. 
He wasn't... really saying anything. Or reacting. Ooor doing anything except keep his hands to his sides. That couldn't be good.
Leo’s mood wilted a little. 
Y'know, it’s fair, it made sense, that Donnie would be mad at him, actually. Or otherwise upset. Leo did kinda cause a whole apocalyptic event... and then almost got himself killed too... and right after he'd given Donnie the chance of a lifetime—to control a spaceship! Probably totally rained on his parade. Leo should ask him how that went later. He was sure it must've been totally badass. 
Maybe asking him now would help his mood...? It was understandable that everyone would be feeling... complicated, after the Krang stuff. But Leo wanted to make them feel happy. He wanted to help them as much as he could. 
“Hey you–” Leo started, and then blinked, trying to catch up with– okay, Donnie’s hand was at his throat. Alright. Maybe that's what he was concerned about. Him and Mikey did watch Leo get a little strangled and almost killed by the Krang-controlled-Raph, yikes. 
Leo tried to make his smile soft and reassuring as best as he could. 
“Hey, I’m alright,” he placated his twin. “I really am, I knew Raph wouldn't actually–” okay, well, he didn't know know, but he had hopes– 
–Donnie’s hands circled his throat. When Leo swallowed, he felt the tight press of it against his brother’s palms. 
“Pretty sure my throat is structurally sound, Dee, you don't have to check,” he joked, voice rasping. He just needed to drink some water. “Hey, can you–”
Donnie squeezed. 
“Okay, okay, keep your water, yeesh!” Leo reacted, sounding appropriately strangled. Except–
Except Donnie started squeezing much harder, and, okay, that was actually hurting–
“Donnie, hey–” Leo tried to speak around his constricted airway, hands lifting, placing them at Donnie’s wrists. “Bro, chill, loosen up a lit–” his words cut off entirely from the pressure, and okay, okay. Uh. 
Donnie was positively gripping his throat now, zero mercy. And sure, Leo could hold his breath for a hot minute, maybe a dozen or two, but his throat was bruised. And the sensation of the walls of his airway pressing against each other and the harsh jab of his larynx and–
Leo’s throat reflexively started spasming, and he gripped Donnie’s wrists in return, legs curling under the blanket. The pressure building in his head. 
Leo tried to jam his fingers between Donnie’s hands and his throat, the way he did with the Krang tentacle thing Raph used. To get just those precious few moments of air, to talk, because it worked with Raph, it had to work now–
But, well, Donnie isn't the Krang. Donnie is smarter. Donnie knows Leo’s affinity for blabbing and with the pressure pressure pressure at his throat, he was giving Leo zero leeway. 
Leo couldn't even yell for help. 
Instead, Leo’s jaw worked soundlessly, popped open with the building pressure, the pressure. It felt like his eyes were going to burst from his skull, and he was choking, now. Lungs spasming, the bottom of his throat convulsing and gurgling. Feet kicking uselessly, tangled under the blanket. 
Leo’s hands were weakly thumping against Donnie’s arms, desperate but never, never hard enough to actually hurt his brother. He was slamming his heels into the gurney to make noise, scrabbling for anything, he didn't have his panic button, anything to grab onto, anything to do, he can't BREATHE–
Lungs convulsing, straining, aching–
“You don't get to escape that easily, little pest,” Donnie spat–
There was drool sliding down Leo’s chin now and hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. And he stared up, up into Donnie’s cold eyes, and past the confusion, he tried to plead, Donnie, Donnie it's me, it's Leo, Donnie it’s okay, please just calm down, you're hurting me bro– 
After all the stress of the Invasion, Raph only felt a little ridiculous when he finally BUSTEDthat door open. He’d just– he heard the heart monitor! And it was way too fast! Leo could be freaking out after a– a nightmare or something! Who the heck locked the med bay door anyway?! It was usually with a sensor, automatically opening when someone passed, why did someone need to lock–!
And at once, all that sheepishness was blasted away through the sight that greeted him.
In two strides Raph was by Donnie, grappling him and wrenching him away from Leo. 
Leo, who immediately gasped for air like he hasn't breathed in a week. But it was too thin, too weak. Immediately, Raph heard him start choking and coughing and spluttering. 
Meanwhile, Donnie broke away from his stupor, still in Raph’s tight hold. He didn't waste a moment to start thrashing and snarling and biting! To the point where Raph was struggling to hold him! Especially ‘cause he didn't wanna accidentally hurt Donnie! The guy still had his entire torso BANDAGED!!! 
(Raph’s had enough of hurting his family for a lifetime.)
“Donnie!” Raph cried, “Don, chill! What the heck is goin’ on–?!” sure, the twins bickered, but all of them bickered! It was never like this! 
“Let me go you PARASITE–” Donnie sneered at him, and, what??? What?! 
Leo was still gasping and choking, and, and– a-and Raph couldn't handle this on his own, he, he–
“MIKEY!” Raph yelled, “DAD! HELP! SOMETHIN’ IS GOING ON A-AND RAPH CAN'T–” 
Donnie fighting in his arms, clawing at his arms, Leo’s awful awful desperate gasps–
“Hold him, Raph!” Mikey’s voice raised against his will, “I think– I think he's infected–!” his hands (hurting, trembling, swathed in bandages) hovered uselessly. 
“INFECTED–?!” Raph’s voice cracked, still wrangling the feral Donnie.
“How?” Splinter’s head snapped towards them. He was taking care of calming Leo down, and the beeping of the heart monitor was still too fast.
“From the ship!” Mikey exclaimed. “It makes the most sense!” right??? Right?! 
Leo, in the middle of coughing and gasping, turned to gape at him. 
Oh. Right. They hadn't told Leo about the ship yet. 
...MORE IMPORTANT THINGS! 
Raph yelped as Donnie finally bit down on his forearm. And Mikey practically saw the word INFECTED slam in Raph’s poor panicking brain, and he wrenched his arm away–
No, no, no– 
Don't panic Mikey, THINK. 
He yanked open a cupboard and then a second and a third–
“DAD!” Mikey yelled because his hands, they were useless right now, he couldn't do it himself–! 
“To me!” Splinter exclaimed and Mikey tossed him the syringe and the bottle. 
“YOU CANNOT DEFEAT THE KRANG, WE ARE INFINITE–” 
And in a few swift moves Donnie collapsed, knocked out by the tranquilizer liquid thingie. 
Splinter drew the needle out of his neck in order to catch him, so he didn't crack his skull on the floor.
They all, collectively, sagged in relief. Heavy breathing filling the room. The loudest of which was Leo’s, labored and struggling. Raph held his arm, where a little bit of blood trickled. 
“O...kaayy,” Splinter drew out. Cleared his throat. “Good thinking, Orange. Uh. Do weee... have... a second bed maybbeeee–?” 
Raph sighed, already moving. “I’ll get it–” 
“Uh, you're bleeding and might be infected, I’ll get it,” Mikey snarked. 
“...Mike, your hands–” Raph hesitated. 
“Can handle a bed on wheels, Raph,” Mikey deadpanned. And then softened up a little, “Do us all a favor and take care of that dang wound,” 
“Yes,” Splinter agrees. “We don't want a second case of this,” 
Or third, rather, but Mikey prided himself on being emotionally intelligent, so he kept that comment buried deep, deep down, and moved along to bring out the second hospital bed. 
Donnie is... well. April supposed his reaction was fair enough. 
She’s the one that took charge of driving while the others took care of each other in the back, so she couldn't see that much of it. But she saw enough. 
While she was... okay, sore and sticky with sweat and tired as hell, and probably gonna bruise ugly; she was, objectively, not that bad compared to some others in their group. She was a human, sure, but she knew how to take care of herself, and Splints and Casey Two really helped. They themselves were about in the same boat as her.
The guys? Yeah, they were mutants or whatever, but man. 
Raph’s eye was jacked up, and there was a whole hole in his shell, and his left hand was shaking. Mikey’s both hands were crawling with some worrying mystic nonsense, and through his manic-delighted laughter, she'd caught something about a portal. Leo was... well. Leo, apparently, cracked a quip and dropped unconscious. April thought that spoke volumes about his current state. It ain't easy to knock these thick-headed turtles out.
Donnie’s right hand was also shaking. That was the least concerning part about him. 
His back was... eugh, Casey was taking care of it in the back while April kept her eyes on the road. But she'd seen it for a few moments, when the construct of his battle shell dissipated to make way for treatment. 
It was bad. 
So bad. It was gross. Skin pulled and stretched and torn, like the worst amalgamation of flaccid stretch marks and bloody cuts. Like prosciutto made of dead flesh. April has never seen skin be torn by being pulled apart. Like ripped fabric, but all loose and mangled and eugh. That stuff only happens in horror movies!!! 
She shuddered, clenching her jaw. Trying hard not to gag, because it would not help. Stay strong, O’Neil. 
Maybe it would've been better if Donnie acted normal. And he did! ...For a few moments. After they'd (apparently, somehow, they hadn't shared the details yet) saved Leo, and informed everyone else about this through the comms, Donnie sounded fine! He sounded just as vibrant and relieved and elated as everyone else! 
But in the few minutes it took for Sister Squad to free the Turtle Tank and drive it to Staten Island to pick ‘em up... 
Maybe it was an adrenaline crash. She turned the wheel again, waited for the garage door to open. Entered into the Lair. 
Maybe it was just a simple adrenaline crash. Everyone was visibly exhausted. Raph was swaying on his feet and Mikey was trembling and Splinter was basically limping. 
“Commander–”
“Got it,” April immediately joined Casey’s side to help him lift Leo. He needed a lot more than just emergency first aid, though he seemed stable. “Dee, wanna–” she turned to ask–
Donnie... just stared. 
He just stared. 
This. This is what was worrying her. 
Maybe it was an adrenaline crash. Maybe a shutdown. Maybe processing everything was just too much for him at the moment. 
She was trying really hard to not judge how he was just staring. 
At Leo. 
“...Ooor not, nevermind,” April said quietly. 
Maybe... maybe it was grief. Or something. They did have that whole “twin” thing after all. So. 
“Casey, uh–” April turned back to the guy as they started moving Leo to med bay. “Donnie...?” 
“Not great, but he'll live,” Casey said quietly, picking up where she trailed off. “There was leftover matter, but I couldn't tell if it was dead Donnie flesh bits or dead Krang flesh bits. Just... a lot of dead flesh,”
April shuddered. Gross. Casey, however, kept speaking like the grossness of it didn’t affect him.
“I had to wrap him quickly to stop the bleeding, but I think I’ll need to cut off more of that skin, he'll definitely need stitches in some places but hopefully no grafting–” he spoke briskly, getting onto the task of filling her in on everyone’s condition. As they brought Leo in to med bay, she prepared herself to assist Future Boy with medical treatment. 
Thank fuck for Casey Jones, huh? They always seemed to save the situ at the most critical times. Bless.
They started hooking Leo to an IV drip and a heart monitor and stabilizing him, a flurry of movement. April doing her best to follow through on whatever instructions Casey handed out—man, he was definitely experienced with this, the way he worked fast but efficient and calm. 
And to her even bigger relief, Donnie joined in. He seemed to be in a daze, disoriented maybe, but he started pulling up scanners and data on some monitors in the room. 
His hands kept... kinda lagging. His face remained... well. Well. It's like his face simply wasn't a part of the rest of his system, just slapped on top. 
But, well. He was helping them. So. 
Maybe it was okay. 
...April would just... pull him aside, once Casey’s done with him too. Donnie was definitely not in a talking mood right now, but leading him through some grounding, maybe some comfort, it might help. Get him to drink water, get his headphones on, that sort of thing. 
Oh, and then she should also do that for the rest of the fam too. 
With an action plan in mind, April O’Neil focused on the task at hand.
There was something wrong with Leo, Donnie was sure of it. And he was sure it happened while he was in the Prison Dimension. 
He just didn't know what. 
It was fine mere moments ago! It was fine during his altercation with Raph dearest! It was fine. 
It was not fine anymore. 
But no matter how much Donnie stared at Leo, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He didn't stop staring at Leo’s prone form in the Tank, in fact. And all he had as proof at the moment was this wriggling, invasive pulse of something's wrong, something's wrong, something is seriously wrong.
Something was so, so wrong with his brother. 
Donnie couldn't help but feel a... revulsion, looking at him. Something that made him curl his hands into fists, nails pressing in. 
He felt like if he stopped looking at Leo for even a smidge of a moment, he would... he would... he didn't know. Donnie didn't know. And he hated it. 
He felt like Leo would snap up and lunge at him. Or their brothers. He felt like Leo would die on the spot. He felt like– he didn't know. 
All he could do was stare. 
He didn't register anything else. It was only this. It was only this. 
Buried in his shell, this bone-deep conviction that something was disgustingly wrong, and the moment he took his eyes off of Leo, it would all surface with a bang. 
He wanted–
He needed–
Donnie needed to know. 
So he stared. He watched, he observed, he waited. 
When they brought Leo home, he took advantage of the moment. While O’Neil and Jones took care of the... remnants of violence on Leonardo, Donnie did one of the things he did best: he collected data. 
It was simple: just a scan whilst the other two hurriedly patched up wounds. And when that scan showed nothing out of the ordinary—a second one. And when that yielded no more results—a third one. 
And when Leo’s injuries were taken care of, when everyone’s injuries were taken care of–
(Skin flesh living snipping away from his back–
No, no, no, they would live. They would live, they would triumph.)
–Donnie simply sat and watched. 
For a bit, Raphael and Michelangelo and the rest were with him. For a bit, everyone took care of each other. Then–
Oh who cares?! 
It was waiting, it was injuries, it didn't matter. None of it mattered! It all fell into a blur. 
Until, finally, finally. 
Donatello knew. 
It was as easy as locking the medical bay’s entrance. It was as easy as a few steps to his “brother”’s body, laying on the hospital bed, bruised and cut and ruined and wrong wrong wrong. 
That was not Leonardo. 
Donatello knew. It. 
He knew it the way he knew his own heartbeat. 
That... thing, inside that body, was not his brother. 
He saw it. He saw its true nature, the way its skin wriggled. Tendrils under the surface, eating away at the insides and taking their place.
It was something so ugly, so heinous, so repugnant that it was difficult for the mind to conceptualize and therefore circled right back around to awe-inspiring. 
It was as easy as his hands around its disgusting little throat. 
It spoke to him in his brother’s voice, the wretched thing. How dare, how dare it use his brother’s voice, his smile. 
Donatello wanted to rip it apart. It was a nuisance, a parasite, a pest. Lowly and disgusting and undeserving of its breath HOW DARE IT BE FREE HOW DARE IT LIVE–
Donnie woke up sore and dazed. 
“Wh... huh...?” he muttered, swallowing dry, trying to blink for the sake of his vision clearing. What... did he fall asleep...? 
He lifted his arm to–
He– couldn't lift his arm. Huh. That's... odd...
Donnie blinked, everything a bit blurry at the edges. A little cotton-y. He felt a bit nauseated, to be quite frank. Not a pleasant thing to wake up to. 
There was... noise. Speech. Somebody was saying something. To him. 
“What...” he muttered again, lifting his arm– nope. Right. Right right right, he... couldn't do that. Hm. 
Did he get kidnapped by the government? 
...Mmm, no, no. There was the beeping of a heart monitor, the smell of antiseptic, yes. But he's always had sensitive senses. Beyond that, he could hear... papá’s shows? Breathing in the same room, as well. He could smell home. Raph was here. 
Raph smelled like... hm. Something sharp, tangy, sort of unstable. But warm. 
Worry, concern? Perhaps hesitation? Meh, Donnie has never been good at parsing emotions. 
“Donnie? ...You with us?” floated in his older brother’s voice.
“Mm,” Donnie affirmed, trying to look around more properly. Yes, the medical bay. Yes, Raph, alongside Mikey. 
...Hm. That's... odd. Why was Donnie strapped down on a gurney, exactly? 
“Wha...” he vocalized, staring down at the restraints. He didn't even know they had those. Maybe The Fam simply used a couple of belts. 
“Heeeyyy buuuddd, how... are you feeling?” Raph approached, with a careful smile.
“Confused, disoriented even,” Donnie stated. “Uh. Nauseated. Do I... do I have a concussion?” he tried blinking, squinting.
“...You could... say that,” Raph said, trying to be gentle in an off-putting manner.
“Boy you were infected!” Mikey delicately informed him and–
And.
Donnie’s brain blue-screened as it loaded the history of what he'd done.
Oh, dear Cain. 
What has he done? 
The way he’d stared at and spoken to Leo, contemptuous, inimical, disgusted. Murderous. 
The way his palms had wrapped around his very own twin’s already bruised throat, feeling the fragile pulse under, the pulse he’d scrambled to preserve. Head deluded by thoughts and visions of parasites, of wriggling little things under the skin, hidden and revolting and deadly. 
The way he’d squeezed–
A single tear rolled down his face, soaking into the bed sheet of the gurney. 
“BUT WE FIXED IT!” Raph was quick to exclaim, worry cranked right up at Donnie’s absolute stupor, the horror no doubt glinting off the whites of his eyes. “We, we–!”
“CJ and Barry cut it all off!!! You're totally clean, Dee!” Mikey attempted with increased cheer. 
But all Donnie could think was no, no, no, how could he do this? Is this how Raph felt? How could this happen? 
What had he done? 
“Donnie, hey, hey, it's okay, you gotta breathe,” Raph reached out a hand, forehead scrunched in anxiety. Donnie flinched back, but it's like it wasn't him. He could hear the rapid alarm of his electrocardiogram, but he could not connect it to the existence of the heart beating within his ribcage.
It's like he wasn't himself. 
How could he possibly recognize if he's not himself? 
His older brother was talking to him, but it was all static, it was all ringing. It was sinking into a squirming-squelching-living nightmare, repugnant and alive and all-encompassing oh unholy Lorecraft– 
Shouts, a clattering– 
Red and green turned away from his face, and, and– 
Replaced by green and red and blue, blue, blue. Standing over him, smiling. Green skin and red markings, white eyes and red bruises, blue mask, blue bruises, colors of the flesh of the flesh the flesh– 
“Heeyyy bro,” a jarring moment, a smile, how could he be smiling? “Wanna help me calm down real quick? I’m feeling a lil’ panicky here,” 
Something inside Donnie reached out, fell into line at that. His hand shot up–
–no, it didn't, they were restrained, the hands he'd used to– 
Lighter green. Unlatching the restraints.
“Leo–!”
“You said he's fine now, so chiiilll it's fiiine! Donnie would never hurt me,” 
Donatello never would, but how could he possibly be sure he’s Donatello? 
Hand freed. He jerks them back close to himself, pushed himself away. 
“Hey, hey, naw don't do that, or I might get sad,” pouting, silly, like it's all fine and not horror-inducing. “Mikey, could you get a glass of water, and Raph– yeah the blanket–” 
“His headphones too–?”
“Oh great idea, yeah, totes– Dee? Donnie-dee? Wanna show me how to breathe, huh? I can't get my numbers straight,” Leo’s eyes back to him, smiling, smiling. 
The image of his beatific smile as Donnie’s hands strangled him to death– 
The way he’d smiled at Raph as he was being STRANGLED TO DEATH–
Why was he SMILING?! 
There was something wrapped around Donnie’s lungs and squeezing, and his brain screamed KRANG KRANG KRANG–
“Donnie, focus on me,” Leo snapped his fingers in front of his face and Donnie wanted to bite him, Leo knew how much that irritated him–!
Wait, why the flippity pancakes was Leo OUT OF BED?! 
The panic, jittery and sharp and ringing, was suddenly replaced by anger, jittery and sharp and ringing.
“Why,” Donnie hissed, and his suddenly narrowed focus picked up on Mikey stiffening several feet away. Leo, smiling, calm, subtly moved to cover it. 
“Why wh–”
“WHY ARE YOU OUT OF BED.” Donnie seethed, high-pitched, hands on Leo’s shoulders. Shaking him a bit. Leo was smiling and it felt surreal.
Leo was smiling the entire time Donnie was strangling him to death. 
Leonardo, his beaten and bruised brother, his brother wrapped in bandages– the idiot, he must've torn something getting up to reach Donnie because he was bleeding through said bandages–
Leonardo, his brother who’d dished out serene reassurances before throwing himself into a death trap– 
–was just smiling at him. 
God, he hadn’t even fought back. 
He didn't even fight back. 
“Why didn't you fight back?” Donnie’s voice broke over whatever Leo had been saying. “Why, why did you– I-I w-was going to kill you–” horror, oh horror. 
“What?” Leo blinked, and he turned as Raph walked back in, yet Donnie had mind only for one thing and it was his stupid, stupid twin. 
“Why didn't you fight back? Leo, why didn't you do anything?” Donnie spoke in desperation. He needed to know. It would ruin him, but he needed it. Just like the stream of information from Technodrome, the knowledge was cursed and horrifying, and yet he needed to know. “I could have killed you are you listening to me? Leonardo you could have DIED–” 
“Hey,” Leo, bleeding, supposed to be resting, smiling, was putting a weighted blanket over Donnie’s shoulders. He offered Donnie his noise-canceling headphones, and Mikey was finally handing over that water he’s been holding for minutes now, hands shaking. Leo was looking him in the eyes, and saying “It wasn't your fault, bro,”
Donnie stared back at him, shaking with the shock of– of– frankly? Of everything. There was a parasite in his brain, apparently, right after the Invasion, so it was all crashing on top of him in the worst way possible. 
“Took you guys long enough,” Leo had said, had smiled and laughed and hugged them, like it was fine, but it wasn't, it. Wasn’t. 
There was absolutely no conceivable way for Leo to have known Mikey could rip apart reality itself. There was no conceivable way he’d known there was any way out. 
And the Krang were hateful, hateful things. Donnie would know. 
So Donnie stared at his twin, smiling and saying something to Mikey that made their little brother crack a laugh. Donnie held a glass of water in one hand and noise-canceling headphones in the other, given to him by his twin Leonardo, Leonardo whom he’d strangled with those very hands. 
“I’m so sorry,” broke out of Donnie, crushed and angry and disbelieving and sad and loving and grieving and ecstatic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
“It’s okay,” Leo said, easy, “Hey, it’s okay, it wasn't your fault,” he opened his arms and Donnie put the items aside to drag Leo into a hug. Leo oofed and laughed, and a tension dropped from Raph’s shoulders as well. 
“You're okay Marsh-Tello,” Leo said, teasing and lighthearted, rubbing the back of Donnie’s neck instead of his bandaged shell. “It wasn't your fault, mkay? It was those big dumb aliens, and we got it all off. It wasn't your fault,” he reassured Donnie, Donnie, as if Leo wasn't the hurt one, as if Leo wasn't the one who’d nearly died several times. What a moron, apparently caring for others even at the end of his own rope, what a dummy. 
Donnie just shook his head, holding the idiot closer. He reminded himself to not hold him too closely, because Leo was still littered with injuries, including cracks in his shell and his inner ribs. And now Donnie knew, if he wasn't careful, Leo wouldn't even eek in pain about it. 
His twin. His idiot. Gah.
Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and held him close. 
37 notes · View notes
bunny-lovers · 2 months ago
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Your f/o would help ground you during a panic attack, helping you breathe to the best of their ability. Your f/o would help you calm down and would make sure you were safe with them, too. Your f/o would be worried but caring and would do anything to be there for you.
proship/comship/neutral DNI
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paingoes · 6 months ago
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Destroyer - Mercy
(Masterlist)
(Content: panic attack, body horror, threat of dismemberment, crying, begging)
======================
Delta wished he hadn’t done it. He had never wished for anything in his entire life. He had saved it all for now. He wished, more than anything, that he hadn’t done it.
The holding cell was strangely warm, giving the impression of being on the inside of some massive creature. He supposed he was close to the engine. There was no light in the room, no sound besides his own choked breathing noises. He didn’t understand what was happening to him physically and that yet it was all the stimulus had to think about. Despite the room’s warmth, he was shivering. Sweat was beading at his bare arms, an unwelcome moisture. He was losing fluid through his eyes too, though he didn’t think of this as crying, oddly enough. He ached where they had grabbed him, but he knew it was nothing compared to what would come next. It was almost funny how little all of this would matter soon. His life was over, he knew it. It’d been a good run, at least. Maybe. Well, not really. It didn’t matter.
The door slipped open, letting a thin line of light in. Delta didn’t move. He didn’t have to. They’d drag him, sure now that his movement must be restricted, that he couldn’t be let out of sight. And they did drag him, upwards, out the door. It scared him that he did not recognize the guards, but his fear was so overflowing by then that it made little difference. He barely looked up as they moved him down the hall of the Thorn. Maybe he should have. Maybe he’d never see it again. He realized, to his own shock, that he would probably miss it.
Another set of doors slid open. It was small, but it was unmistakably a throne room. The General Nezu and his counsel Chanyu Brooks were standing in attendance. Sitting on the throne, almost entirely obscured by shadows, was His Highness, Paris of Thales.
The guards threw him unceremoniously to the ground, scraping up his hands and knees. He straightened himself into a kneel immediately. General Nezu was standing over him, in his blind spot. It would not have been right, under ordinary circumstances, for an old man who did not have any claims to Delta to be presenting him back to his owner. But these were not ordinary circumstances. Nezu had caught him, fair and square. He had nobody to blame but himself.
He kept thinking, if he’d just waited until the ship was airborne, he might’ve had a chance. They couldn’t reasonably accuse him while they were hurtling through the depths of space. There’d be nowhere for him to go. But instead he had done it while they were docked on a sanctuary planet. It didn’t matter what he was trying to do. Paris would never, ever believe him. And even if he did, now he had to save face. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. In the eyes of the law, Delta had attempted escape. 
“Your Highness,” General Nezu spoke, “This is quite a high caliber security risk. I’m astonished you’ve given Δ-107 such free reign to begin with. Your father was very specific in his demands that the weapon be contained within the controlled environment that the Institute had constructed for it. This is precisely the reason why.”
Delta didn’t look up, knowing preternaturally that if he did, the General would wrench his neck. His man, the Chanyu, went on in a mechanical fashion.
“I discovered it attempting to access the engineering console in the middle of the night. That is the system that controls all functions of the Thorn, including her passenger doors. It is my belief that Δ-107 was attempting to exit the ship without authorization and to take refuge on the planet below. Needless to say, even the attempt to take control of the ship constitutes an existential threat to not only the Empire but the galaxy at large.”
Delta winced. How had he been so careless? He’d been building up to this for weeks, but he had gotten too absorbed to even hear the footsteps down the hall. Maybe it was their irregularity that had escaped him. It was not the sound of anyone he’d been trained to look out for. If Paris had caught him, he might’ve been able to beg for mercy. If he begged well enough and the two of them were alone, he might’ve even received it. But Delta had been caught by Nezu’s men, the ones who were always chomping at the bit to take over. He’d made Paris look bad in front of his competition, which was about the worst thing you could do to him. Delta was pretty sure he’d never see the light of any sun ever again. 
“Not to mention the danger to your legitimacy. I’d remind you, nowhere in your father’s will did it stipulate that  Δ-107 should enter your possession. It would not be a hard right to challenge, if one was so inclined. For that reason, I’d recommend you address this situation swiftly and effectively. I have some suggestions of my own,” Nezu picked up where his man had left off, as if they had rehearsed. 
Paris was silent, which Nezu took as a cue to continue.
“Are you familiar with The Damian Foundation?”
No. No. No. Delta felt bile rising up in his throat, his body shaking so much he was sure they all could see it. The voices rose up in an awful cacophony from the dredges of his memory. He saw their mutilated forms as if they were there with him, the limbs strung up, the eyes gouged out, the bones pushed through the skin to better attach to the metal grating. 
“The standard procedure there is to just remove the offending limb. Here it would be the legs, if you want it to retain some degree of independence, the care needs would be lessened. But if you have the labor to spare — or if you would accept mine — quadruple amputation is also an option. They’ve learned to do it very safely. When the threat level is this high, I think it’d be appropriate to respond in kind.”
This isn’t happening. This is not fucking happening. No. No. No. 
“All they really need is the brain, you know. The jarring tech is still experimental, but so far it’s very promising. Of course, its applications are not as flexible, but all the power is preserved and is able to be drawn from. We believe this is in your best interest, Your Highness. From your current position, there is nothing that is better left to chance.”
It was happening, though. In some sectors of the Empire, it was becoming the go-to solution for unruly psychics. It was a safe, intuitive way to get the energy out of someone who refused to give it up willingly. The other generals and their factions would surely agree this was a great compromise. Delta was going to pass out, which only made him panic worse, he’d be out and then when he’d wake up it would already be over. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive anymore, half convinced he had died in his sleep and was now stuck in a kind of hellish afterlife. He would be stuck forever, he was sure. God, he was so young, he would live forever like that, trapped in his own body, a body that had been-
“From my current position?” Paris asked.
The General stiffened.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to undermine my authority,” Paris said, a bit testy.
“Not at all, Your Highness. It’s si-“
“Did I give you permission to speak?”
Like that, silence filled the room. Paris took a deep breath.
“Thank you for the warning. It’s a very serious issue you’ve brought to my attention and so I will go over it with my own people. At no point did I request your advisement in the matter. I don’t appreciate you offering it unsolicited — and I don’t ever want to hear you suggest it again. Delta is mine. I’ll discipline him as I see fit.”
Silence. The General didn’t move an inch.
“If that’s all then, the two of you are dismissed. And in light of this security crisis, I think it’s best if you disembark as soon as possible. I’ll flag your ship right now.”
Like it pained him, General Nezu bowed out. The two of them left without saying goodbye, disappearing through the large doors of the throne room. The doors slammed shut violently, and then there was no sound at all.
Delta looked up. Paris’s face was hidden in the shade. He could not see his expression. Delta was still shaking badly, his skin a pallid color. He wouldn’t have been able to stand up if he was asked. He didn’t know if he could move at all, the animal terror rolling off him, the relief. The gratitude. It scared him. He’d never felt this way in all his life.
Paris pulled his own leg up onto the throne, rocking it gently. 
“Well?” The prince asked.
“Thank you,” Delta said, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”
He was crying. He hadn’t meant to. He was lower than he had been a second ago, closer to the ground, half bowing and half keeling from the exertion.
“Thank you,” Delta said and meant it. It shocked him how much he meant it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”
Paris didn’t say anything, letting him grovel or cry for as long as he needed to. It took a while. Paris closed his eyes. He was so tired. He held up a hand and the sobs quieted. 
“Go to your room, Delta. I don’t even want to look at you right now,” Paris’s voice was deceptively calm, only the words revealing the anger beneath them. 
Delta felt a rush of shame. Paris was still angry at him, of course. He always was. Why did it hurt so badly now?
~~~
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